Breaking Strain
by ChaserGrey
Summary: Twenty years after the death of their Domination, change has come hard for the Draka. But when all they've built is threatened by fanatics within and a different Cold War without, the only hope is a new generation that's grown up in exile- and the unlikeliest of allies. Sequel to "Proof Through the Night",
1. Prologue

Breaking Strain: Prologue

_August 4, 1964 2133 Hours_

_Aboard USS _Yarrow

_Northwest of Madagascar_

"Radar contact!" A half-dozen quick steps brought Lieutenant Commander Raymond Archer across the bridge of his destroyer escort and into the Combat Information Center on the heels of that call. The nineteen year old seaman hunched over the phosphor screen didn't look up at his captain's approach- he'd learned that much, in the six months he'd spent in the fleet. Out here you did your job, or the opposition did for you. Now he fiddled with the controls of his scope, working down the gain to refine the contact. "Multiple small surface contacts bearing three-one-five, range thirty miles and closing."

"Speed?" Archer bent over the seaman's shoulder, expertly picking out the dim dots against the background of the screen. The seaman shrugged.

"More than five knots, less than fifteen or twenty, Skipper. Can't tell for sure yet. Got a course, though- straight for the Line." Now he did look up, enthusiasm bubbling through tension and the starch and polish of a new-minted trainee. "Looks like you were right, Sir."

"Uh huh." Archer looked at the scope for a moment longer, then up at the big transparent board where a plotter was already entering the contact. "I thought if we dangled a predictable hole in coverage they'd try something cute on the new moon. That's how we catch 'em in the Africa Patrol, Mister Bartlett." He patted the boy on the shoulder, then turned back to the bridge, pitching his voice to carry.

"Officer of the Deck, bring her fifteen degrees to port and go to flank speed. Tell Flag we are in hot pursuit. Sound general quarters for surface action, silent mode." Moments after he heard the OOD repeat his orders, Archer felt the deck shifting under his feet as his command surged forward and heard the sounds of scrambling feet from the ship's main deck and inside the CIC. He pulled his flotation vest and steel helmet from their locker and busied himself with buckling them on, listening with half an ear as the bridge talker repeated station reports. It took much longer for _Yarrow_ to close up for action this way, with the word being passed by phone and messenger rather than by a screaming klaxon over the ship's PA system, but it did have one advantage. On a clear night like this the sounds of sirens could carry a long way over water, and Archer didn't want to chance spooking the game.

Twenty minutes later, _Yarrow_ had slowed back down to a crawl, creeping up the last few miles towards her targets as they drew near the Line. She had managed to cut across their course, putting herself between the dozen or so small boats out there and their objective. Her big diesels were shut down, the ship creeping forward on electric drive. Forward of the bridge, the 3-inch rapid-fire mount was indexing towards unseen targets in the darkness, while forward of it the destroyer's lone big 5" gun pointed at the sky. Along the sides of the ship, men stood ready behind splinter shields, aiming 40mm grenade launchers or 20mm Oerlikon cannon. The torpedo aiming stations were manned, although firing a fish at the size of craft that were out there would be like shooting a dragonfly with a .45. Aft on her fantail, beneath the muzzles of her second 3" rapid mount, her Marine boarding squad waited near their whaleboat while bluejackets stood by the depth charge racks. _Yarrow_ was ready for whatever the night might bring to her.

"All stations set, Cap'n." Lieutenant Delacour, his exec, puffed up from damage control central where he had been monitoring the ship's progress towards battle stations. Delacour was the son of a fisherman from the U.S. state of Santo Domingo, soft-spoken and capable of improvising a magnificent steel drum set out of virtually anything on liberty days. Tonight he was all business as he peered out into the darkness, letting his eyes adjust from the dim red light of belowdecks. "Think we gettin' some trade t'night?"

"Yeah." Archer scanned the horizon with his binoculars, aware of the exec doing the same next to him. Delacour eschewed the use of artificial magnification, claiming that by cutting down your field of view you lost as much as you gained. Navy regulations and the laws of physics said he was wrong, but somehow he managed to pick out contacts in the dimness just as quickly as regular hands. "Right about…"

"…There." Captain and XO spoke at the same moment, as a gaggle of small boats emerged from the darkness, cutting across _Yarrow_'s path on their way in towards the Line.

Archer swung himself down from his bridge chair. "Take the conn, XO. Nice and quiet." No need for more direction than that. Delacour had been out on the Africa Patrol almost as long as he had and was more than ready for his own command. Ray Archer swung out onto the bridge wing, crowding the lookout who was already there, and leaned forward onto the railing with his binoculars up against his eyes. With the luxury of a few minutes in hand, he began to plot out how he would take his prey.

The boats would be built for speed with retrofitted aircraft engines, and would probably scatter as soon as he challenged them. They could outrun _Yarrow_, eventually, but not his shells. It was unlikely they'd carry anything that could hurt his ship, but the possibility always had to be allowed for. He'd try to drift close without letting them see him, get between them and the far shore they were trying to reach, and trust in his guns to smash anything that looked like too much of a threat. Very likely he'd smash them all to matchwood and bits of floating metal, with nothing worse on his ship than jangled nerves.

Wearily, Archer reached into his breast pocket and drew out a cigarette, stepping inside before he used his electric coil lighter to set it going. God damn these people anyway. Even if they made it past the Patrol, they'd get in no more than one or two fast raids ashore before the local reaction forces chased them out. Then there would be the Patrol again on the way out. Even if they made it, the most they would do would be to smash a few farms up, kill the families there, perhaps shoot up a town. Just enough to make the people there hate them even more while changing nothing at all.

Then again, the people who manned those boats had never forgotten their warrior heritage. This was about honor for them, and pride, and revenge for the world they'd lost. Archer didn't see any of that changing soon.

_Yarrow_ was pulling in front of the boats now, less than a mile away as they bore off her bow. Through his binoculars Archer could see one of them stop, perhaps trying to make out a half-there silhouette in their path. Time!

"Now!" Archer grabbed the loud-hailer microphone off its clips as the bridge talker repeated the word into his headset. The forward 5" mount let out a low, flat _boom_, then another. Star shells burst over the ocean with deadly radiance, and Ray Archer's voice boomed over the water like an angry deity's.

"Unidentified vessels, this is U.S. Navy warship operating under the International Quarantine Enforcement Authority! You are in violation of the Exlcusion Zone and are directed to heave to immediately! If you continue you will be fired upon and sunk without warning!" The boats stopped, and Archer's lip curled. They were waiting for _Yarrow_ to board one of them, so the rest could take off for their target. Well, he'd seen this one before.

"Launch the whaleboat. Tell 'em to pick a big one and expect the usual." The fast motorboat swung out from _Yarrow_'s quarterdeck and cut out towards one of the larger raiding craft. Its crew were all Marine Boarding Party men, piratical customers who favored automatic rifles, sawed-off shotguns and .45s, punch daggers and bush knives and the occasional cutlass, men who had never passed inspection or failed combat. If Archer had to leave them for an hour or two, he was confident they could hold off any three of the raiders- for that matter, if the rest of them somehow sank _Yarrow_ they would probably capture a boat, sail to the flagship, and report him missing.

The whaleboat pulled up along the raider, and Archer tensed. Any minute now. Sometimes a very stupid or very canny flotilla master would let him take one or two boats, try to tempt him into pulling _Yarrow_ up to speed up the boardings. That had worked, once.

The sounds of a scuffle carried across the water, muffled shots and a body that let out a long wail before plunging overboard from the captured raider into the warm Indian Ocean. As if that had been a signal, the dozen other boats roared their engines and burst apart like a knocked-over anthill, scattering away from the escort and heading for their goal. Archer didn't need to give an order. The 5" mount boomed again, putting up fresh light to kill by, then swung its barrel down to track one of the targets. The three-inchers opened up with their high, flat _crack_ sound, twin barrels pushing forward and back as they sent streams of shells out into the night. The first boat blew up, then another. One drew near their port side as they came around, wicking the air with machine gun tracers, and Archer heard the hollow thudding sound of the grenade launchers sweeping the open boat clean and the high chatter of the Oerlikons cutting it into driftwood. Delacour had already brought the bow around and had the diesels howling as they gave chase.

"Sonar contact!" The call from CIC brought Archer's head whipping around. His voice was high, almost a scream as he cried back,

"Where? _Whereaway?_" An eternal moment, then the sonarman's voice came back.

"Port quarter, solid contact! Range five hundred yards, depth about sixty feet!" Archer cursed, then waved to Delacour.

"Ring her down and bring her about, Ed. Sub on the port quarter. Stand by depth charges, sixty feet." _Yarrow_ heeled over into a turn, her forward 3" mount falling silent as her bow turned away from the fleeing targets. Archer cursed venomously under his breath. He'd heard reports that the raiders were starting to use midget submarines, but never encountered one up until now. If he let it go now odds were he'd never reacquire, but stopping to drop depth charges meant at least some of those boats would get away.

"Radio, get on the horn." Archer looked over his shoulder, towards the last of the fleeting boats. As his ship's bow swung around into her depth charge run, the 5" mount fired and one flared into a fireball, but four more headed in for the coast. "Tell the Snakes they have company coming."

_August 4, 1964 2157 Hours_

_Firebase Mamba, Northeast Madagascar_

Centurion Pietr Ellis was out of his bunk and running across the open ground of the firebase before his mind had a chance to switch from asleep to awake. Around him his troopers were doing the same thing, pounding out of the thatch-roof reaction shelters and over to their vehicles. By the time Ellis finished strapping himself into the commander's seat of his Hyena scout car, the entire column was showing their ready lights and the sentries were already sliding the perimeter gate aside. A tortured squealing of tires against cracked pavement, and Century D of the First Reaction Cohort went screaming off into the night.

Ellis fitted the microphone of his vehicle crewman's helmet in front of his lips and slammed the plug jack home into the commander's console. He keyed the mic.

"Jenny?"

"On line, Centurion." Jenny White's voice was cool as ever, though Ellis knew her heart had to be hammering just as hard as anyone's. "Got Cohort on the line fo' you."

"Blessings. Patch me through." There was a click, then Ellis started up again. "Mamba Den, this is Flashfire. Say again, Mamba Den, this is Flashfire. We are rollin' and golden, what's the emergency?"

"Flashfire, this is Mamba Den." Sweet Nothing, that sounded like the bad old man himself. "Just got a flash off a damnyank destroyer. Bushmen comin' in, four boats got past 'em and headin fo' the beach. Cuttin' party, most like." Ellis cursed venomously under his breath. Philosophically speaking, he found it hard to blame the former slaves of the Domination of the Draka and their children for wanting revenge on their former masters- were the positions reversed, he imagined he'd be after much the same. It was rather hard to take that view, though, when that impulse took concrete form and started sailing speedboats from the Sultanate of Greater Zanzibar to try for Draka ears. It had gotten especially hard over the past couple years, since the ongoing ratfuck in Indonesia had diverted the Yankees' attention and weakened the Quarantine. Five years ago, not one raid in twenty would have gotten to the Draka enclave of Madagascar, and ten years before nobody had even been trying.

"Ah, roger that Mamba Den. Any eyeballs out there?"

"That's a negative on that, Flashfire. We got the _C50_ on patrol and divertin' to search, but nothin' yet from the coastwatchers. The course we got from the Yankees indicates Sector III, anywhere from Dragon Green to Fox Red Sectors. Use your discretion." Ellis grimaced. Among many other restrictions great and small, the Draka were forbidden by the Treaty of London to operate heavier than air craft. The Air Corps did the best they could with their blimps and a few rigids, but they couldn't make them fast. Unless they got very lucky, he was going to have to guess where to put his men and hope to play catch up after the bushmen landed. Just what he needed.

"Roge-doge, wait one, Mamba Den." He switched over to the century net and keyed his mic. "Flashfire Guides, this is Actual. Head to Eland Black dispersal point and start workin' secondaries for Dragon Green to Fox Red." A murmur of acknowledgements, his scouts fanning out to guide the Century to its goal. "Max Flashfire units, this is Actual. Company comin'. Get hot, Draka." Click-click, and he was back on with Cohort. "We on the way, Den. Any mo' good news?"

"Some." The Cohortarch sounded darkly amused. "Alert Net workin', all settlements in the area acknowledgin' and mobilizin'. C Century mountin' up now, B standin' to, and yo' have first call on artillery." The old man sighed. "I know that ain't much, Pete, but it's all we got. Get it done."

"We'll get it done, Sir." Not much else they could do.

Ten minutes later, they were all laagered at the rally point waiting for the first call to come through. The night was split open with the throaty growl of idling diesels from the armored cars, muffling the softer hiss of the steam-powered personnel carriers and the metallic clicks of weapons coming up to the ready. No one spoke unless they had to. Any minute now-

"Flashfire, Flashfire, this is Sentry Dragon Black. Two contacts comin' in, heading fo' the beach at my sector. Request backup." Before Ellis could key his mic to reply, the emergency push sounded again. "All units, all units, we have a confirmed landing in Fox Green sector. Outlyin' settlements report they under attack." Shitfire. That was another problem- the bushmen had been getting better and better at coordinating their attacks lately.

"Right. Flashfire Fourth, head to Dragon Black. Hold 'em and call up help from the reserves if yo' need it." With a squeal of tires, his four Scorpion combat cars pulled out of the laager and headed off for the beach. The Draka Archonate didn't really have tanks or the need for them, but the Scorpions' long-barrel 90mm guns should be able to deal with the incoming boats before they could land. "Flashfire First, Second, Third and Guides, Fox Green. Let's go, people!"

Ellis could hear the cracking of small arms and the occasional burping rip of a machine gun long before the settlement of Fisherman's Bend came into view up ahead. Sounded like a fair amount of fire, which was bad. Two boats left, which could have meant a Tetrarchy's worth of raiders or considerably more, depending on how big they were and how close the raiders were willing to pack themselves for the run over to Madagascar. By the sound of it they were already in among the outlying farms and heading for the town center, mixing it up with the militia along the way. Have to do things the old-fashioned way, then.

"Max Flashfire units, this is Actual. Dismount an' quick advance, Draka. Don' let nobody by yo', and don' stop for nothin' till we have these sumbitches back in the water. First and Second Tetrarchies up, Third back. Yo' know the drill, now move!" As the Century pulled into the center of town, it seemed to break open and swarm like a shattered hornet's nest. The two SP automortars, mounted on Hyena chassis, braked into the town center and started setting up. The big Buffalo halftrack transports stopped, molting infantry that quickly spread out into skirmish order, then started forward again with the muzzles of the heavy machine guns mounted on their cab roofs turning back and forth alertly. The Hyena scouts did the same, ready to lay heavy rocket-gun fire on any strong points that might present themselves. D Century plunged ahead into the burning night.

_2231 Hours_

_Thorn Hollow Farm, Madagascar_

Yolande Ingolfsson was very quiet. She had to be, because that was what Father and Mother had said when they put her down the hole. The Bushmen were coming and Father and Mother had to go fight to keep them away, but Yolande was only nine and a half and wasn't allowed to do that yet. She was old enough to wait by herself, though, carrying the stiletto she'd gotten as a present last birthday, and Father said that was enough for now. Even if she couldn't fight, she could free another Draka to fight, and that was all a nine and a half year old could do.

Yolande turned on her pen light and looked at her watch. That had been her other present when she turned nine, a real Forces-issue watch that Mother had helped her sink with her parents before they went away. Yolande wasn't sure what it was supposed to sink into, but it made her feel good to know she was seeing the same time as her parents. They had told her to wait until they came back, or for three hours before she went for help. That sounded like a long time to her, but she had to be very sure the bushmen were gone before she came out.

She'd asked her parents why the bushmen came, a long time ago, but she hadn't asked again. Father and Mother had both gotten hard looks on their faces, and said that it was because of bad things they did a long time ago, things that made the bushmen angry. Yolande wasn't sure what her Father and Mother had done, but she hoped it was nothing too bad. Maybe the bushmen wouldn't be too angry.

_Thump_. The floorboards above her head shook as someone stepped onto them, pacing through the house. _Thump_. _Thump_. Yolande looked up, wide-eyed. Was it Father and Mother already? It hadn't even been one whole hour yet, and they'd said…

There was a loud crashing from up above, and a burst of quiet laughter. Bushmen! Bushmen were wrecking the house, and the thought made Yolande flush with anger. She remembered what Mother had said, though. Her job was to stay quiet, let the adults fight, and not cause problems. So she bit down on her lip and waited, while the crashing continued. Waited, while the floorboards kept creaking and she heard blades pushing into them, looking for any secret doors. Like the one to her shelter.

Waited, to see who would come to get her.

_August 5, 1964 0530 Hours_

_Archona Nova, Madagascar_

Sophie von Shrakenberg found her husband on the roof of the Archonal Residence, looking east out over the Indian Ocean as the sun rose. For a moment she remembered another morning, almost twenty years before, when she'd watched another sunrise with him in what seemed like another world. In the years since she'd learned that finding her husband absent from their bed when she woke was a bad thing. Eric came to watch the sunrise when he wanted to be alone, and that usually meant something bad had happened.

"Sophie." He didn't look back at her anymore- just knew she was there.

"Eric." She settled in next to her, leaning against the wrought-iron railing. "What happened?" For a moment all she could think of was their little family, and a moment of fear gripped her heart. "Something happen to Anna? Marie or Johnny?" Eric shook his head.

"Not quite that near, but close. 'Nother raid last night, up in the northeast." A long pause, and Sophie felt her body clench as she realized what was coming. "They hit Thorn Hollow. Reaction Century pulled Yolande out of the shelter, but Johanna and Tom, they-" He broke off, and Sophie wrapped her arms around him, silencing him before his grief could drive him to shame. After a moment she asked,

"How soon is she coming?" He looked over at her, shrugged.

"Well, I thought I would ask before I inflicted a nine year old-"

"And so yo' did, Centurion." Sophie shook her head, voice dry and bemused. "And thank yo', but I am not going to make yo' orphaned niece sleep on the streets. We'll find a way."

"Thank you." Eric nodded, once, then looked off at the horizon. When he spoke again, his voice was full of tears.

"We've got to stop doing this to each other, Sophie. We can't keep on doing this!" Sophie nodded, and kept her peace. It was the same thing Eric said after every raid, if a little more plaintive than usual. She was too wise to speak when she had no words that would help. He was too wise to expect words when there could be none.

And they were both too Draka to think that every problem had a solution


	2. Chapter 1

_November 19, 1964, 1300 Hours_

_USS_ Reprisal, _CVA-59_

_South of Madagascar_

The right-hand waist catapult fired, and the Ryan A4R Retaliator attack bomber screamed down along the ship's angle deck before hurling itself into the air on a pair of afterburning turbojets. As the nose came down and the aircraft accelerated towards Mach 1, its wings began sweeping backwards for high-speed flight, turning the clumsy-looking aircraft into a blunt-nosed arrowhead that screamed low over the ocean on its way towards the Madagascar coast.

In the cockpit, Captain Julius Rosemont turned his head to the right and grinned. The young man in the BN's position next to him was wearing the same crash helmet and oxygen mask that Rosemont was, but he was still showing pale around the eyes and cheeks. Rosemont keyed the intercom.

"C'mon, Mad Dog. Admit it. That was fun." Lieutenant Melvin Brown, three weeks out of the A4R Fleet Replacement Squadron at Norfolk and cursed with a face that made him look like a frightened mouse every time he was even a bit nervous, swallowed and shook his head as he bent down into the radar scope.

"I'll let you know when it starts being fun, Sir. Hasn't happened yet." Weak as the joke was, Rosemont chuckled at it, making sure he had the intercom keyed when he did so. He'd seen a lot of nuggets come and go in the thirty-odd years he'd spent in the Navy, and from all appearances Brown was going to be okay. Not a whiner or a quitter, just hadn't managed to quite adapt to the various and sundry insane things a U.S. Naval Aviator was expected to do as a matter of routine while he was in training. If he could keep that lack of confidence from breaking his nerve before he settled in Brown showed all signs of developing into a damn good BN, and his nascent sense of humor was a positive sign.

Rosemont kept the throttles pushed all the way forward as the coastline of Madagascar appeared on the horizon, low and lush green. His eyes picked out the folds of the terrain with the ease of long experience, and his hands casually floated the Retaliator up another few feet to make sure they would clear the first rise after crossing the beach. Moments like this were what he had always loved, what had kept him in the Navy even after it became clear that not even being the hero of Operation MONGOOSE and the Medal of Honor would allow him to have his own admiral's flag. What he'd done instead had been a hell of a lot more fun- gone Restricted Line, served as a flight instructor and a test pilot wringing out new birds for the Fleet, and generally become an institution within the Navy's attack squadrons. When the CO of Heavy Attack Squadron One broke his leg three days before the ship had been due to sail for the Quarantine, it had been an easy call for CAG to pull old "Rosie" off his staff and put him in place of the green XO. He was 53 years old and probably wouldn't be able to hold off the damn flight surgeons for much longer, but by God he'd gotten to lead the Myrmidons of VAH-1 again. Didn't get much better than that.

The Madagascar beach flashed white under their wings, and Rosemont keyed his radio.

"Warhammer 503 is feet dry, repeat feet dry." Then the intercom: "Gimme a steer, Mad Dog."

Instead of a verbal reply, the bombardier put a green steering bug up in the top of Rosemont's HUD, and the pilot drew smoothly left to follow it. Their job for the day was a simple one- fly over the military installations at Trismestigus, about halfway down the island, and take some pictures to make sure the Snakes hadn't gotten up to anything naughty since the last overflight of this section two weeks ago. Some of the squadron pilots would have taken that as a chance to set the autopilot and go cruising over at eight or ten thousand, but any time Rosemont wanted to be bored there was always plenty of paperwork waiting back in his office. _Reprisal_ was operating under Quarantine authority, which meant they didn't have to tell anyone they were making an overflight, and he didn't like the damn Snakes that much anyway. Might as well rattle their cages a bit.

"Bit fast for the photo run, Sir." Brown was keeping his voice pretty calm, all things considered.

"You worry too much, kid. Anybody ever tell you that?"

"Twice a day since I joined this goddam outfit, Sir."

The Retaliator screamed out over the treetops, barely subsonic, and as they settled onto the heading for their photo run Rosemont expertly eased the stick back and chopped throttle. Just as Warhammer 503 flew over her initial point and Brown flicked on the camera pod in her bomb bay, the altimeter kissed 4000 feet and the airspeed indicator 450 knots- minimum altitude and maximum speed for the photo run. Rosemont grinned to himself. Not bad, Julie, not bad at all.

Rosemont and Brown flew three passes, south to north while easing themselves further to the west each time, "mowing the lawn" over their assigned sector. As they settled onto the fourth run, Rosemont fixed his eyes on a mountaintop up ahead. Have to try to slide over that without messing up the exposure-

The Retaliator's threat panel screamed, and Julius Rosemont reacted with a lifetime's trained reflexes. His eyes picked out the rising starburst coming up out of the valley and he slammed the plane off to the left, away from the climbing missile. The arrow shape turned to follow as Rosemont slammed Warhammer 503 into afterburner, holding down the manual override to keep the wings swept forward. He could hear them groan in protest as the stress built, but he'd need every bit of snap turn he could muster in five seconds or so. As the missile slid below the canopy rail and out of sight, he gasped out one word.

"Chaff!" Brown slammed his thumb down on the salvo button, and the Retaliator's internal defense pod kicked out ten packets of chaff that burst into a thick cloud of metal strips. Rosemont snap-rolled 503 through a hundred and eighty degrees and yanked the stick back, reversing their turn. The threat horn stuttered and died, as he snatched the Retaliator away and the missile tracking radar switched to the chaff cloud.

"Jesus Christ, they shot at us!" For a minute Rosemont wanted to snap Brown down for that, but the kid's reaction was understandable. The Draka understood very well that Quarantine overflights were not to be interfered with, and there hadn't been any accidents like this for years. This was like going out your front door for the morning paper and stepping on a rattlesnake. Instead, he said,

"Call the ship." As Brown keyed the radio and reported the attack with a forced calm, Rosemont pulled Warhammer 503 into a left turn, circling back towards the jungle below. As soon as Brown ended his transmission, he keyed the radio mic.

"Vendetta, 503. We're going back in for another pass." Brown's eyes were wide as he looked over at his pilot, and the ship didn't sound much less incredulous.

"Warhammer 503, you were just attacked in that area. Recommend you wait until we clarify the situation." Rosemont grinned humorlessly beneath his mask.

"Vendetta, if this is some kind of mistake, you're right. But if it's not, by the time we call them and they apologize whatever they're hiding will be long gone. We're going back in." A pause.

"Your call, Warhammer. Good luck." Rosemont glanced over at the right hand seat.

"You with me on this, Mad Dog?" Brown's eyes looked as big and wide as a cartoon chipmunk's, but he nodded. "Allright. Set the camera for the fastest exposure you can and the widest field of view. We're going to forget the flight parameters, do this low and fast, and trust the photo lab geniuses to pull something useful out of it."

"Yessir." The Retaliator's nose came around and pointed down the valley again, bits of stray cloud wicking over the canopy as they pushed the Mach. Brown finished setting his panel and settled back into his seat, pulling the straps tight. "Hoooleee shit, I can't believe we're doing this…"

Warhammer 503 screamed over the valley again, the stick smoothing out under Rosemont's hands as they cleared the first ridge and punched through the sound barrier. The green jungle canopy rushed by past the canopy and Rosemont felt his fingers tighten and his toes curling on the rudder pedals, expecting at any moment for another missile or a streamer of flak to come reaching up out of the jungle for him. It didn't happen. The threat board stayed quiet as they finished their run, then climbed out and turned back for the sea. They still had another couple sweeps to finish in their sector, but Rosemont thought they'd pushed their luck enough for one day. They'd burned a lot of gas running around low and fast, and it was time they got this film back aboard the ship.

As they cleared the coast, Brown looked over at his pilot. "Sir, what do you think that was all about?"

Rosemont shook his head. "Kid, that's a good question. I really wish I had a good answer for it."

_1420 Hours_

_Ragnarok Project Primary Site, Madagascar_

Merarch Stonewall Jackson Bohner threw open the door to the Cobra missile launch control center and stood in the doorway. His voice was perfectly calm and controlled as he asked, "Who gave the order to fire?"

The battery commander, a young boy of twenty-odd years, raised his hand tentatively. "I did, Merarch. We know what Yankee recon runs look like. The profile indicated-"

The battery control van echoed with the thunderclap of Bohner's 13mm Tolgren automatic, sending the three other operators diving to the floor and rolling around with their hands on their ears, trying to stop the ringing. The battery commander slumped in his seat, blood and brains covering his console. As the last echoes of the shot died away, Bohner spoke into the silence.

"What it indicated, son, is that today's recon run was being flown by a Yankee who liked to show off. Since yo' was entirely too stupid to realize that, this whole effort may be blown. 'S all right, though. I know yo' won't let it happen again." The other operators looked up at him, their eyes wide, and Bohner impatiently motioned them back to their stations. They'd been trained to shoot when the battery commander ordered them to shoot. Wasn't their fault the battery commander was an idiot.

"As you were. Clean that up, and you-" Bohner pointed at the senior tech, who barely managed not to flinch, "-congratulations, yo' the new battery commander. I'll send you a replacement soonest." He turned on his heel, throwing the control van's door shut behind him, and walked out to meet his two principal aides. His first question to them was characteristically direct.

"How bad?" Doctor Bryan Nesmith shrugged his shoulders and ran a hand through his short sand-colored hair. He wore a long-sleeved lab coat in defiance of both military protocol and the muggy tropical heat, but it was no affectation- the coat's surface was frayed and stained a dozen exotic colors by the chemicals he worked with daily, and had half a dozen singed holes in it from various near-accidents.

"Can't say, Merarch. First pass stopped short of the most important parts of the complex, and the second was very low and fast. Depends on how good the Yankee cameras are and how sharp their photo intel boys are. Might not have gotten anythin'. Might have gotten everythin'."

"Shitfire." Bohner kicked at the jungle mud, looking out across the valley. Years of work, here, done in painfully slow stages to make sure it passed unnoticed. Now they were weeks away from success, and one boy's stupidity might have blown the whole thing.

Well. Might was a long way from certain, and he hadn't come this far to have his Will thrwarted at the last instant. All he had to do was buy a little time- but first, he'd better make sure that he had to buy as little as possible. He turned to his other assistant and spoke.

"This could pose some difficulties. I would appreciate it if yo' would communicate with yo' people and see if the final shipment can be accelerated."

Major Shoichi Ito of the Imperial Japanese Army raised his eyebrows slightly, and nodded. "I will raise the matter with Tokyo, Merarch. I believe under the circumstances they will regard our request…favorably."

_November 22, 1964 1400 Hours_

_Yamamoto Residence, Tokyo, Japan_

Fleet Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto was contemplating the beauty of his gardens when his household staff Prime Minister Masanobu Tsuji to see him. That irritated the Prime Minister immensely, because he knew Yamamoto didn't give a damn about how beautiful his garden was- although it was immaculate, arranged with the greatest taste by the finest practitioners of the art. The admiral had always been much more at home in good restaurants and in the company of _geisha_ then writing poetry or sipping tea, but now he was taking the opportunity to play the retired elder statesman, interrupted in his meditations by the younger generation. It was condescending as hell, and especially galling because Tsuji knew he'd have to ask Yamamoto for something during this interview- and he knew the old man knew it, too.

"Admiral." Tusji bowed deeply from the waist, gritting his teeth. The old bastard might be trying to bait him, but damn if he was going to let it crack him. "Please forgive me for disturbing you. But events have compelled me here to seek your counsel."

"Prime Minister." Yamamoto stood and bowed in return, only fractionally less than Tsuji had. "Please do not apologize. Even now this old man is always at the disposal of His Majesty's ministers." Officially, that was all Yamamoto was- an old man retired from government service, living on his Navy pension in the house the Emperor had granted him on his retirement. Officially, there was no such thing as the _genro_, the loose body of elder statesmen without whose approval no Prime Minister could govern. Officially, Yamamoto could not be Tsuji's mortal enemy, because he commanded no power. Both men were far too experienced to be deceived by how things worked on paper. "What matters have brought you here to seek my humble opinion?"

"There has been a problem with the Draka situation."

"So I heard." Yamamoto's eyes flashed and fixed on the younger man's face, and Tsuji felt his spine stiffening as though he were an officer cadet again. "I have heard that the Yankees may have spotted your little summer house down on Madagascar. I have heard that your preparations there are not yet complete. I have heard that you are in a great deal of trouble, Tsuji. If you wish my counsel, you know what it will be. Abandon this foolishness at once, before you lead us into ruin as Tojo so nearly did in 1941."

"I see." Tsuji had expected this, and kept his face carefully blank. "And yet, much as it pains me to contradict you, Sir, I have decided instead to accelerate the operation. The _Akita Maru_ has completed refueling in Goa and is ready to sail. We can be ready in a matter of days, long before the Americans can have a response ready. They are distracted by matters in Indonesia, and slow to act."

Yamamoto grunted laughter. "You Army boys never change, do you? It looks like you need to be kicked in the balls every twenty years, to remind you not to underestimate a foe." His gutter language was deliberate, delivered in the coarse Nagaoka dialect of his youth. Tsuji flushed and fought to hold himself straight.

"Perhaps, Sir. But what I must know is whether you will advise His Majesty against this course of events." Now he felt every muscle in his body tighten. If opposition was to come-

"No." Yamamoto shook his head, turning halfway to look at a flowering bush. "No, I shall not. I am of a mind to, you understand. But Admiral Nagano and Lord Kido are of your counsel, and I would not wish to trouble them by contradicting them in front of the Emperor." Tsuji let out a breath quietly. In other words, much as Yamamoto might want his political head on a platter, he hadn't been able to persuade enough of his fellow _genro_ to support his views. Tsuji had his free hand. He bowed at the waist, more deeply this time, trying to hide a smile.

"Thank you for your circumspection, Admiral. I am sorry that I cannot take your most wise counsel, and will occupy no more of your time." Yamamoto returned the bow, but did not move. "I can find my own way out, thank you." It was a deliberate snub for the Admiral not to walk him out, of course, but Tsuji could bear a hundred subtle insults in this moment. No matter how much Yamamoto might try to bait him, he'd won and they both knew it.

"Tsuji." Yamamoto's voice stopped him by the gate to the house. "For all our sakes, don't take the Americans for granted. Not even for an instant."

_November 23, 1964 0600 Hours_

_Archonal Residence, Nova Archona_

Eric von Shrakenberg watched the black limousine pull in through the gate of the Residence in a cloud of white steam, and made his way to the Residence's main staircase. Sophie was waiting in the foyer with a silver tray filled with fluted crystal glasses, each holding no more than a thimbleful of watered wine out of consideration for the early hour. He fiddled with his collar for a moment, watching Sophie's eyes laugh as he fumbled and she visibly fought the desire to set the tray down to help. His adult daughter Anna, her long apple-red hair done up in a long bun on the back of her head, stepped forward and helped straighten it as both women giggled. Then both women sobered.

"Papa, what do you think this is about?" It was Anna who asked, but they were all thinking it. Eric shook his head slowly.

"I don' know, heart. I was hopin' _yo_ might." Anna still had quite a number of contacts from the decades she'd spent in the United States, and gave him a valuable outsider's eye on things as he tried to steer this damn Archonate into the 20th Century. "All we know is that fo' days ago, the Yankee carrier on station started squawkin' in a code we don' know, back and forth a fair bit with they headquarters in Venta Bellagrium. Carrier headed west and landed somethin', took what looks to be the IQEA Director onboard, and started headin' back for Madagascar like it wasn't goin' be here when they got there. Now we got her landin' at Regentropfen on a carrier delivery plane, and a request to meet me as soon as possible." A request that was backed by the nuclear warheads onboard said carrier, of course, and it was hardly an accident which one the Yankees had forward based to enforce the quarantine. All other factors aside, the name _Reprisal_ wasn't one that any Draka was going to forget.

The doors to the Residence opened, and the IQEA Director walked in, trailed by a pair of military officers and an honor guard of Marines doubtless on loan from the U.S. Embassy, trailed by troopers of the Archonal Guard. The Marines carried fixed bayonets, and reload magazines in white leather pouches at their belts. This was bad. Eric straightened.

"Service to the State. Eric von Shrakenberg, Archon. My wife Sophie, and my daughter Anna. Be welcome in my house, Director."

"_Buenos dias_, Archon." The slightly built, olive-skinned woman who had walked though the door first took a glass of wine from the tray and drained it along with the Draka, although the officers behind her refrained. "Carmen Ruiz de Vega y Hierro, Director of the International Quarantine Enforcement Agency. Thank you for receiving us." Her voice was light but sharp, direct, much like the director herself. A woman and a quarter-Mayan _mestizo_ besides, she had shouldered her way to the table alongside the old-fashioned _patróns_ of Yucután State by sheer stubbornness and will- which made her disconcertingly good at dealing with the Draka. Eric broadened his smile.

"I am at yo' disposal, Madam Director. Shall we go to my office and discuss whatever urgent matter brings yo' here?" Sophie and Anna peeled off as they walked up the staircase, the Marine sentries and Guard troopers remaining behind. Maybe the social pleasantries had defused things a little.

Any hope of that, however, vanished as soon as the door to his working office swung shut behind them. No sooner had they all settled themselves into chairs than Director Ruiz tossed a series of photo prints on his desk. "We would very much like an explanation for these, Archon."

Eric leaned forward, taking a magnifying glass out of his desk drawer and inspecting the first one. It was blurry, but he could still make out a jungle canopy. Camouflage nets. And underneath-

"Holy Thor, God of Thunder." Eric tossed the first exposure aside, scanning the second. No doubt about it. They were mobile ballistic missiles, long narrow metallic cigar shapes strapped to the backs of heavy diesel trucks. For a moment his guts turned to water as he worked through the implications in his mind, wishing with all his heart that this might be some kind of ghastly practical joke. One look at the Yankees' faces told him it wasn't. "When were these taken? Where?"

"Captain Rosemont?" At the Director's word, one of the two officers behind her stood. He was in a frost-white USN dress uniform, with aviator wings and a light blue ribbon leftmost on his medal rack. That made him-

"_That_ Rosemont?" Eric couldn't stop the words from passing his lips, fists clenched tightly until his nails dug into his palms. Dear Gods. How bad things had to be to bring _that_ man, _here_! The American smiled, humorlessly.

"Yes, Archon. That Rosemont." Eric stared into those light brown eyes for a moment, taking in the permanent sun-squint around the corners and the uncannily tight focus. Tried to imagine those same eyes looking down at Marseilles and Genoa one March night in 1945, smashing his army's supply bases to pieces. He forced his eyes back to the director, gritting his teeth as he tried to stop his heart from pounding.

"Well, Madam. If you wanted to put me off-balance, congratulations. Now just what the Eblis is all this about?"

Rosemont cleared his throat. "These pictures were taken four days ago, Archon, over Trismestigus Province in central Madagascar. I was the pilot for that mission, and we were fired on by a Draka Cobra-type surface to air missile while looking the area over." He leaned forward and smiled. "If that hadn't happened, might not have given the place a second look. Bad luck, hey?"

Eric sighed and leaned forward, burying his head in his hands. After a long moment, he looked up. "Madam Director. Gentlemen. Yo' have to believe that I knew nothing about this until y'all showed me these just a minute ago. Whatever is goin' on down there, it is not authorized by my government." The other officer, a portly man in an Admiral's unform, snorted and Eric looked over at him sharply. "It's the truth. I swear it on my father's name and the first von Shrakenberg's grave. Sweet Loki, Admiral Wallis, I was commandin' in Europe when y'all smashed us up in '45. I know what happens to us, do we step out of line that far. Have I impressed yo' so far as a suicidal man?" The Admiral glared back, but Ruiz raised her hand to cut him off.

"You haven't, Archon, which is why we're here and our Retaliators aren't. Speaking personally, I'm inclined to believe you. But you must understand our…concern over these events." Her voice was cool, the essence of understatement. "If you have any insight into these matters, it's critical that you give it now."

Eric opened his mouth to reply, then bolted to his feet as a rattling came from the office door. Before the Americans could finish whirling around, he had palmed the autopistol out of his desk drawer and flung the door open. The tow-headed young girl who had been standing behind it held up her hands and shrieked, tumbling backwards into the hall.

"Freya!" Eric stood there, chest heaving, then stood aside to let the Americans see who it was. "Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies. My niece, Yolande Ingolfsson, who apparently cherishes ambitions for our secret service." He peeked down at the girl, who was still shaking, and sighed. "It's okay, 'Landa. Just go on down and see Anna fo' a bit, and don' come by here when I have guests?" Part of him wanted to read her the riot act, but that wasn't something he was going to do in front of a bunch of Yankees- and besides, scaring the girl out of a year's growth would probably drive the lesson home better than a dozen blows with a birch switch.

Yolande ran off, and Eric slid the door shut with a sigh. The Americans were just settling back into their chairs when he turned to face them, dropping the pistol on a side table and leaning against the door. "In a way, Yolande is the answer to yo' questions, Madam Director. She's been with us 'bout three months now, ever since my sistah and her husband got killed by bushmen up north. We all know they been makin' it through your patrols more often lately, and gettin' better at coordinating they attacks." He held his hands up. "I'm not sayin' this is yo' fault, just explainin' the situation.

"Yo' probably know as well as I that certain elements of our military aren't happy about the details of our exile, particularly the bushman raids and the limitations on high technology we labor under. Merarch Bohner, the legate commandin' the forces in the Trismestigus area, is a prominent member of that faction. He's been agitatin' fo' us to build up our forces and retaliate for the raids, but I had no idea…" He trailed off, and Ruiz cleared her throat.

"Do you know what he plans, Archon?"

"No." Eric stared sightlessly down at the photos. "But whatevah it is, it's big and it's goin' to be soon. He wouldn't risk assemblin' major hardware like this unless everything was close to ready. Missiles and payloads both."

"Nuclear?" Admiral Wallis' voice was gruff as he folded his arms across his chest. Eric shook his head.

"Doubtful. No way we could assemble that ourselves. He has to be gettin' some help from outside, but I know y'all still sweep all the cargoes comin' in for radioactives. I'd say it's impossible he could get a significant number of warheads in, even did he have a source." Eric ran a hand through his hair. "No, probably chemical. We've always been good at that, and if yo' tryin' to threaten someone…"

"It's just as good." Rosemont leaned forward, and Eric nodded in grudging respect. There was a real brain turning behind those damned bombardier's eyes. "Question is, how much have they got and where?"

"I don't know." Eric leaned back against the door, looking up at the ceiling. "But I think I can find out. Take maybe twenty four hours, maybe less."

The Americans exchanged glances, and the Director spoke. "Archon, we are willing to believe that you have nothing to do with this, at least for now. We will give you time to gather information on this and try to work with you to defuse the situation. But you must understand. If any missiles launch from Madagascar-"

"Everybody here dies. I know." Eric grinned, a death's-head look. "Guess that makes me what yo'd call real motivated about it, hey?


	3. Chapter 2

_November 23, 1964 0913 Hours_

_Archonal Palace_

"Damnation to Eternal Darkness." Centurion Pietr Ellis stared across the polished rosewood desk at the ruler of the State, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. "Excellence, this all confirmed?"

"Better believe." Eric stared across the table at Ellis, his blue eyes absolutely flat. "Bohner's gone serious sideways on it, looks like, and he's either goin' pull of whatever he's planning or get us all killed. Good news is, the Yankees are givin' us a chance to solve the problem ourselves before they turn us into a giant glass mirror. Bad news is, we don't know how much gas he's got or where it is. We figure that out, maybe we can do somethin' about this."

He leaned forward, heads on the desk in front of him. "Centurion, when I called yo' in here I imagine yo' thought it was to thank you for savin' my niece. For which I am grateful, and I'm sorry I haven't gotten the chance to say so before. But now I'm askin' mo' of you. Askin' yo' to be my eyes."

"Excellence, I don't understand." Ellis leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment in shock. "Why me?" Eric grinned humorlessly.

"Because I can't trust those I can send, and I can't send anyone I can trust. Anyone high up in the Forces is too easy to watch, and do any Archonal Guard troops get spotted down there Bohner will know the game's up. Anyone else could be one of Bohner's. I'm bettin' that if you are, yo' wouldn't have saved Yolande. As much of a hellion as she can be, she'd have been even more of a distraction dead." The Archon shrugged, and dropped back into his chair with a sigh. "And as flimsy a rationale as that is to bet my nation's future on…I got nothin' else."

Ellis whistled. "Hell of a gamble, Excellence. That all you're going to go on?"

"No. We goin' to do a little field test." Eric stood in one fluid motion and opened his desk drawer, dropping a 10mm Tolgren automatic on the desk surface. Ellis started, but before he could say anything Eric paced to the other side of the office, a good ten yards. Too far for him to possibly beat the younger man to the pistol, but close enough that it would be almost impossible for him to miss. "Centurion, if I'm wrong, I'd rather die nice and clean at the start. Mo' pleasant for me, and who knows? With me out of the way, y'all might be able to pull off whatever it is fast enough not to get us all killed. So if yo' one of Bohner's…I'll give yo' until thirty."

Eric turned and faced the wall, letting his eyes run over the books ranked there. Volumes of law and statistics, military history, and a few battered, loved volumes from his childhood that had somehow been elsewhere when his family's plantation burned. His _Young Draka's Illustrated Odyssey_ called up memories of reading to Tyansha by gaslight under an apple tree, fourteen years old. The stars had been so bright…

A movement behind him, and Eric forced himself not to turn. Then a muffled sound, and a weight at his hip as deft hands unsnapped the flap of his belt holster and slid the pistol back in. Eric let out a breath and turned, to see Ellis standing just a few inches a way, grinning crookedly.

"Sorry to disappoint yo', Excellence." A beat. "I will need some kind of travel orders, just in case…"

"Here." Eric reached into his shirt pocket with steady hands and drew out two sheets of paper, passing them to the younger man. The first took Century D of the First Reaction Cohort out of line and assigned them to special R&R at Camp Howe, near Regentropfen Airport on the outskirts of Archona Nova. The second was an all-Forces message from His Excellence the Archon, informing them that Centurion Pietr Ellis was on a special mission for the Archon's Office, and was not to be interfered with by any subordinate officers or officials. "Don't have to tell you to be careful using that last one, but it should get yo' past the paper pushers. Goin' to take your Century?"

Ellis shook his head. "Fewer the better, I think. We'll just go in and have a look-see at what Mister Bohner is up to."

"Good. Service to the state, Centurion. Good luck."

Ellis saluted neatly. "Survival to the Race, Excellence." At Eric's look, he grinned wider. "Glory seems a bit of a long shot right now, considerin'."

Eric laughed at that. Loyal, good instincts, and a sense of humor. He'd make sure this one went far, assuming he was in a position to say anything about anyone's future after about the next 48 hours or so. "Get gone, youngster. Don't let me down."

_1430 Hours_

_Flag Bridge, USS_ Reprisal

"God, this had to be next." Admiral Herbert Wallis looked down at the map table and the photo transparencies spread out on it, then up at his senior officers and Director Ruiz, who had decided to stay aboard ship when the new crisis began to bloom. The photos they were all looking at had been taken by an Air Force reconnaissance jet less than six hours before, then photostatted from Venta Bellagrium to the ship. They showed Zanzibar Harbor crowded with hundreds of small craft, all of them bristling with small-caliber weapons and taking on fuel and ammunition at the wharves. "This is the biggest push we've ever seen them do, and if any of them get ashore- well, Bohner couldn't ask for a better excuse to kick off his plan. Whatever it is. Wonderful sense of timing the Zanzies have."

"If that's all it is." Captain Julius Rosemont was a squadron commander, and normally wouldn't have rated a place at such an exalted gathering- but he was also the Navy's recognized expert on Snakes and how to bomb them, which made him one of the command group for the forseeable future. "The Quarantine people shoreside know about the missiles, which means that it could have leaked to the Zanzies." He held up a hand at the Director's angry glare. "No offense intended, ma'am. But if your organization doesn't have any leaks in it…well, it'll be the very first in human history. I know I'd make sure to have some moles in it, if I were the Zanzies."

"True." Ruiz still looked like she'd swallowed something sour. "But why they're choosing to do this now is beside the immediate point. The question is, what do we do about it? We have to stop those boats." She looked down at the harbor again. "Admiral, I need to go ashore as soon as possible. I'll go to Zanzibar personally and appeal to the Sultan."

"Do you expect that to work?" Wallis' tone made it abundantly clear what he thought of that. Director Ruiz shrugged.

"It may. In any case, I can think of nothing else that can be accomplished by diplomatic means. The Sultan may listen to me. He may be able to stop some of the boats from leaving harbor. And the horse may learn to sing. Everything else, Admiral, will have to be in your hands." Wallis nodded shortly.

"Understood, ma'am. Any instructions?"

"Only this." Ruiz held out her hand, and an aide passed her a sheet of paper. She scanned it once, then laid it down on the plot table and signed it with one of the cheap Navy-issue pens that lay strewn across it. "Effective immediately, I am extending the Exclusion Zone to the full hundred and fifty nautical miles off the coast of Madagascar. You are authorized to fire upon and sink any vessel still in the zone, starting eighteen hours from now." At the stunned expressions around her, she smiled grimly. "The Treaty gives me the authority to vary the zones around Madagascar as needed to adapt to circumstances. I admit that this isn't the moving shoals or rich schools of fish that the drafters imagined, but the authority is there. After this is all over…I suppose I'm not too old to turn sugar planter."

"Uh, yes ma'am." Admiral Wallis recovered his aplomb. "We'll start shifting forces to the northwest sector immediately. _Reprisal_ can provide air cover." Wallis paused to take a breath, but before he could speak again Rosemont broke in.

"Excuse me, Sir." Wallis looked up with a glare, but he pressed on. "I have to think there's something we're not seeing here. Look, from what von Shrakenberg is telling us Bohner has to be getting help from the outside, right? Fine, but even with some help a few ballistic missiles don't really change anything about the basic situation. If they pop off so much as a bottle rocket without our okay, _Reprisal_ can turn Madagascar into a parking lot with one hand tied behind her back."

"You have a point, Captain?"

"Yessir. I think this looks like a setup. Bohner's plan doesn't add up, and as for the Zanzies…let's just say I don't believe in coincidences. There's something here that we're not seeing."

"Allright, Rosemont. Let's say you're right. What do you think we should do about it." Wallis folded his arms across his chest. "We can't ignore the Zanzies' fleet."

"Not saying we should, sir. But look at our dispositions." Rosemont bent over the chart with a grease pencil, drawing arrows to shift escort groups around the island. "Normally, we'd do something like this, right? But it leaves the southeast part of Madagascar almost totally uncovered, the part near Trismestigus Province. Be a good time to try to sneak something in."

"Mmmm." Wallis bent over the chart and stared at it. "We could leave a few escorts…"

"That's not going to cut it, Sir. The only single asset that can cover all that territory is a platform that can do its own airborne searches."

"You're talking about _Reprisal_." The Admiral looked over at Rosemont, his eyes narrowing. "Absolutely not, Captain. We're going to need her too badly down here."

"Excuse me, Sir?" _Reprisal_'s Captain spoke up from the other side of the circle, where he'd watched in silence until now. "We could shift about midway up the island instead. Our Argus planes could still cover the gap and talk escorts in to any intruders, and we'd still be able to give decent support to the rest of the Fleet." Wallis stared at him for another long moment, then nodded.

"All right. Make it so, Captain. CAG, rustle up a COD plane to take the Director to Zanzibar soonest. Dismissed, ladies and gentlemen." As the meeting broke up, Rosemont walked over to _Reprisal_'s Captain.

"Thanks for the assist there, Jaime."

Jaime Guitierrez made a small gesture. "Everything I said was the truth, Rosie. I'm not sure I see the same threat you do. But I've trusted your judgment ever since you convinced me to launch that last strike at Genoa back in '45." He grinned, and clapped the other veteran on the shoulder. "Just make sure you're right, yes? If I lose another _Reprisal_ it's going to look damned awkward on my service record."

Rosemont grinned back, and sketched a salute. "Guess I'll just have to make sure I'm right, then."

_2145 Hours_

_Outside Ragnarok Project Primary Site, Madagascar_

Pietr Ellis belly-crawled forward through the thick jungle, moving with almost painful slowness as he scanned the jungle for any sign of sentries. Behind him he could feel more than hear Jenny White crawling along, moving even slower as she watched their rear and carefully dragged undergrowth to conceal their tracks. He'd taken her and a steam-powered utility vehicle from the Century and made his way down to Trismestigus Province on the national road system, passing through the few military checkpoints they'd come across without a problem.

They'd driven around the perimeter of the area Bohner had staked out for his missiles as much as they'd dared, then had a long, agonizing wait until darkness fell and they could start their sneak. The installation seemed to be centered around a wide, broad valley in the middle of what was officially a military exercise area. The only road suitable for vehicles ran through the floor of the valley and was blocked at both ends- officially by routine checkpoints, but Ellis hadn't for a moment considered trying to bluff past them with the Archon's letter. There seemed to be a cordon drawn around the rest of the area as well, but it was fairly loose- so far Bohner seemed to be trusting in secrecy as his best security, and it would have taken at least a full Chilliarchy to do a proper job of sealing the area. They'd left the jeep at a turnoff on a general access road as twilight fell, and had spent the two and a half hours since worming their way the five or so kilometers from the road to the ridge overlooking the valley.

As Ellis crawled forward, he could see a gap in the trees and the ground dropping off on the other side. Time. He slid forward to the edge of the trees and shrugged his knapsack off of his shoulders, taking out a long oblong shape and laying it down on the ground. Jenny slid up next to him, slapping his ankle twice in the all-clear signal. There'd probably be a roving patrol at the treeline- he'd have placed one, if he were running this place- but they weren't nearby now, and with the Great Nothing on their side they'd be done and gone before it showed its face. Now he leaned over to Jenny and breathed out,

"Tripod." Jenny slid the short metal assembly from her pack and passed it to him. As he unfolded the tripod and mounted the snooperscope on it, she shrugged out a shoebox-sized battery pack and cabled it to the main body. Ellis switched it on, gave it a minute to warm up while he strapped on a small microphone, then peered through the eyepieces.

The bright green image of the valley below still startled him- the new low-light snoopers were still very new gear, and the nature of reaction duty meant there was seldom time or need to deploy them. Carefully he panned the binoculars over the valley, taking the time to drink it in and _see_ everything that passed in front of his eyes. Don't think about the patrol that was surely coming, somewhere. Don't rush. Just get the job done right the first time and make sure everything got recorded, trust in the Nothing for the rest.

"Backstop positions behind the main roadblocks." Sandbagged installations with camo nets over them with recoilless rifles and machine gun nests, a nasty surprise for anyone who didn't know they were there. "Missile launcher trucks, lots of 'em. Some kind of big tank, got missile trucks near it and…yeah, hoses goin' into the body. Figure that's they fuel. Barracks, looks like, and- hello." In the center of the camp was a large building, of heavier construction than the rest and with the boxy silhouette of an industrial-grade air scrubber on the roof. Guards stood around it, and a roving patrol with Holbars at the ready swept through the pile of 55-gallon drums in a fenced-off area behind the building. As Ellis watched, a group of men came out of the building dressed in heavy rubber chemical suits, waiting until the door had closed behind them before they started peeling them off. He looked up from the scope and grinned, a shark's mouth expression.

"Gotcha." He whispered a description into the mic, sighting in on a few landmarks to make sure he could find the building from an overhead picture, then carefully finished his sweep of the compound. It was hard, with elation and adrenaline surging through his veins, but he couldn't assume that there was only one gas dump until he'd made absolutely certain. The consequences of missing even a little bit didn't bear thinking about.

As he finished sweeping the valley again, Ellis saw the figures that had come out of the gas building still standing around, apparently deep in conversation. He smiled again to himself.

_Hope yo' having a real nice talk, you bastards. Yo' don't have much time left for it._

_2155 Hours_

_Ragnarok Project Primary Site, Madagascar_

Stonewall Jackson Bohner pulled his gas mask off and reached over, thumping Dr. Nesmith on the back as the other Draka worked on getting out of his rubber suit. Nesmith was also grinning ear to hear, and even Major Ito's face was triumphant. Bohner's voice was jubilant.

"Excellent work, Dr. Nesmith. I know the risks yo' took acceleratin' this work, but it seems to have paid off fo' all of us. What you've done will never be forgotten by the Race." Nesmith ducked his head and grinned, but Bohner meant every word of it. The original plan had allotted a full five days to the vital experiments needed to confirm that their last batch of D7 gas- the stuff the Yankees called VX- had been correctly synthesized and would perform as advertised once dispersed. Just killing was only a small part of that- the gas had to be stable enough for loading the delivery, but able to disperse as calculated. And even if the gas could kill, a comparatively small reduction in lethality would greatly reduce the impact of their threat. By cutting some experiments out and cleverly redesigning others, Nesmith and his assistants had managed to compact five days of work into the just over thirty hours since the Yankee overflight. The gas was everything they'd hoped for, and now everything was ready.

Well, nearly everything. Bohner turned to Colonel Ito, who had just finished taking off his own suit. "Colonel, any update on the external situation? You people promised that your parts of the puzzle would be in place well before our part was ready." He spread his hands. "Well, we're ready…and it seems our ship has yet to come in."

Ito smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "I am sorry, Merarch Bohner, but unfortunately not all parts of the plan can be made ready with as much efficiency and haste as Doctor Nesmith has shown. I am reliably informed that the _Akita Maru_ is less than ninety miles outside the quarantine zone and may be expected to dock within twenty-four hours."

"Which is goin' to be too late." Bohner fixed the smaller man with a stare. "Little bird told me that the bushmen over in Zanzibar been gettin' a hellacious big fleet together, getting' ready to saturate the Yankee blockade and go on a big ol' cuttin' party. Wouldn't know anything about that, would yo'?"

Ito smiled uncomfortably. "It may be that the reaction we engendered has been more vigorous than hoped, but these matters must be weighed, Merarch Bohner. Unless the blockade force is sufficiently distracted, we have no hope of getting the _Akita Maru_ through successfully. We can scarcely stop for a customs inspection in Venta Bellagrium as the treaty requires, and even at her full speed she will take nearly seven hours to transit the quarantine zone-"

"And the ones that pay for your little deception are the Draka. Nice."

"Merarch, surely that is none of your concern. You will achieve your desires."

"Wrong." Bohner jabbed his finger into the smaller man's chest. "It is precisely my concern. Yo' think all I want is to rule the State? Shitfire, did I want that I could wait for that old fart in Nova Archona to keel over and run for the office myself. I'm doin', this, Colonel, because the Draka are in a blind corner and there's no other way out. Because our Race, our people, are dying every time the bushmen come over and they will wipe us out if we don't do something about it. And now yo' want me to stand by and let all those bushmen through? No, sir." Ito looked confused.

"But without the troops on the _Akita Maru_…"

"To Hades with 'em. We'll need them, but not until the time comes to actually storm the capital. We're doing this now, before that fleet leaves harbor…and the first thing we do is tell the bushmen that if so much as one boat sails, their whole damn ant's nest is gettin' sprayed."

Ito's eyes were wide with horror. "Merarch, you can't-" Bohner laughed.

"Can't what? Remember the aide I gave the nod to when we came out? Colonel, the go signal was sent to all our men ten minutes ago." He leaned forward, relishing the look of horror on the other man's face. "So yo' best see to it that yo' come through on your promises. Hey?"

_2330 Hours_

_5 km from Ragnarok Project Primary Site, Madagascar_

Ellis trotted out of the jungle fringe, White on his heels. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when he saw that the steam jeep was still there, right where they'd left it. Now to call in. He motioned Jenny to the driver's side and slid into the passenger's console, flipping the jeep's radio set on. By the time they were rolling he'd dialed in the frequency and code settings the Archon had given him and started his call.

"This is Flashfire Actual calling Fist Actual." A long silence, and Ellis was about to repeat the call when the radio crackled. Sounded like the old man himself, not a functionary.

"Fist here, Flashfire. What do you have?" Ellis grinned, though he knew Jenny was the only one who could see it.

"Got the location of Bohner's depot, Fist. Locked down, certain as I can be without goin' down and knockin' on the door myself."

"Good." The Archon's voice was flat, and suddenly Ellis heard a long, stuttering crash in the background. He started forward- that sounded like gunfire. "Now listen. Situation's changed. An hour ago Bohner got on the radio and proclaimed himself Archon, told the Zanzies that if they don't stop they little invasion fleet he's going to hit them with a blow that will rival all the hurts we Draka have suffered in twenty infamous years, unquote." Another pause, then another stuttering rip of what was definitely gunfire. "Why he thinks he'll get away with it I have no idea, but as it stands yo' the only one who knows where his arsenal is well enough that the Yankees can get rid of it without nukes. Which they will do, if there's no other alternative." Ellis closed his eyes. The Draka nightmare- a full-on attack that would doom the Race.

"So now what, Sir?"

"We're pinned down in the Residence. Archonal Guard's mostly on our side, thank Freya, and we're gettin' odds and sods from most of the troops in the Capital area, but Bohner's people have us pinned down. I want yo' to get to Regentropfen, any way yo' can, and link up with the Yankees there. Tell 'em what yo' know. Make 'em listen. And try to work out some way for them to stop Bohner without killing us all." Ellis stared at the handset, appalled. "That a good copy, Centurion?"

And there was nothing to say but, "Good copy, Excellence. Out." The connection went dead, and for a minute Centurion Ellis just stared at the handset. As they pulled out onto a main road and Jenny hit the gas he shook his head quietly.

"Jenny, I have got to learn to stop volunteering for this kind of shit.


	4. Chapter 3

_0125 Hours_

_T- 5 Hours, 5 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting_

_N2 National Highway, Madagascar_

"Sorry, Centurion." The scar-faced Senior Decurion running the roadblock looked up at Pietr Ellis and utterly failed to show any regret. For all that Ellis nominally outranked him, the way he folded his arms across his barrel-broad chest and the pair of Buffalos pulled across the road behind him left no doubt as to who he thought was in charge of this situation. "Mah orders from Merarch Bohner's headquarters are specific. No one's to be allowed through the cordon into the Nova Archona area without his specific okay. Yo' ain't got that, so I have to ask yo' to turn around and go back where you came."

Ellis clenched his teeth together, and spoke only when he was sure he could control what would come out of his mouth. "Decurion…Miller, is it?" The man nodded. "Decurion, I got travel orders here from the _Archon_." When the man's face still didn't move, Ellis' eyes narrowed and his voice took on a biting edge. "Yo' know, the Archon? Old man, bout yay high, lives in a big house up thataway where he guides the destiny of the State an' Race? That Archon? I think his authority supersedes Merarch Bohner's."

"An' there we may disagree." The Decurion shifted his Holbars assault rifle forward on the patrol sling looped around his shoulder, and behind him the Draka troopers in the back of the Buffalos copied his gesture. "Accordin' to Merarch Bohner, the Archon who signed yo' orders is a traitor to that very State and Race. So I'll give yo' one more chance, _Sir_. Turn round, get away from my roadblock, or I will turn yo' into a crater to discourage the next dumb sumbitch decides to argue with my orders. We can play it any way you want."

Ellis stared into the man's eyes. Then past his shoulder. Then he smiled widely.

"I think the situation's changed somewhat, Decurion. Look behind yo'."

The man snorted. "Please. That's the oldest one in the bo-"

With a sharp _CRACK-WHAAAAAM_, one of the ancient trees by the side of the road exploded, showering flaming splinters for hundreds of yards around. Most of the Draka at the roadblock threw themselves flat instinctively, but one trooper who'd been a fraction of a second slower than the rest screamed and rolled on the floor of the Buffalo's troop compartment, his skin perforated by a dozen smoking slivers of wood. The Decurion wheeled around, his eyes wide and his face going white around the scar as he took in the four Scorpion combat cars that had just crested the ridge behind the roadblock. One of them, its barrel smoking, turned to cover the Buffalos with its three companions. Behind them, more Buffalos were coming up with D Century of the First Reaction Cohort's infantry, but their presence was more or less ceremonial. The Scorpions would need a single shot each, perhaps two, to turn the entire roadblock into smoking wreckage. The Buffalos shuddered into gear, their drivers pulling them out of the road before abandoning them with the infantry, rushing for the dubious cover of the trees. Just as the Senior Deucrion turned back towards him, face darkening in rage, Ellis landed a neat punch between his eyes.

Walking past the collapsed man, Ellis heard Jenny pulling the jeep up behind him. As he strode down the road. The lead Buffalo pulled up towards him, turning sideways. The familiar head of his Century 2IC appeared above the troop compartment's side rail, sweeping off his helmet and grinning. Ellis grinned in response, snapping a parade-ground salute.

"Service to the State, yo' old bastard. What kept yo'?"

Master Warrant Michael McWhirter laughed as he leaned casually against the rail. "Glory to the Race. And I think considerin' we got a call not two hours back that yo' were in some kind of unspecified trouble, in addition to all the weird shit comin' over the radio tonight, we made damn good time. 'Sides, we got here in time, didn't we?"

"That yo' did. Good thing too, jeep's about busted." As he spoke, Ellis headed for his command car, sensing rather than hearing Jenny fall in at his heels. "Let's not hang around the crime scene, Warrant. But once we get five-six klicks up the road I want to pull off to the side someplace and have a laager. Y'all aren't goin' to believe what we gotta do next."

_0200 Hours_

_T- 4 Hours, 30 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting_

_Flag Bridge, USS_ Reprisal

"Boy, I hate being right all the time." Julius Rosemont stared at the flag plot unhappily, watching the trace making its way in from the southeast. An airborne radar plane had picked up the trace half an hour before, and one of _Reprisal_'s A2H Vampire light attack planes had just confirmed the contact with parachute flares. The _Akita Maru_, a ten thousand ton freighter registered out of Yokohama, making for the Madagascar coast right where there should have been a break in the Quarantine. "I suppose it's too much to hope that we can just sink the sonofabitch and have done with it?"

"Fraid so, Rosie." Jaime Guitierrez threw the newly developed photos of the ship down on the chart table in disgust, splashing droplets of developing solution over the surface. "Blowing away Zanzie boats and chasing off trawlers is one thing. But when it comes to a major Japanese-flagged merchantman…"

"I know." Treaty or no treaty, international mandate or not, with the U.S. and Japan already in a proxy war in Indonesia an American warship couldn't just sink a large Japanese merchantman, even if she was busting the Quarantine. "So what do we do?" Guitierrez shrugged.

"Closest escort is the _Yarrow_." Both men shared a glance at that. They both remembered Dan Yarrow, who had flown an AR Revenant off the first _Reprisal_ and sacrificed himself so that one Julius Rosemont and his crew could survive and drop their bomb on Genoa. Talking about the ship that bore his name had always felt a bit too much like calling up a ghost. "She's running full-out now, should be in position to board by sunrise. We've already got a full Sierra package standing by for the Zanzies, so if she runs into too much trouble we can divert a few planes and ruin the Japs' whole day. But we have to at least try."

"I know." Rosemont flicked his eyes up the plot. "What's the situation up north?" Guitierrez sighed.

"Well, appealing to the Sultan seems to have worked, at least partially. The Director's message said that worthy appears to be running scared of something- we could probably figure out what, given the day or two that we don't have. Problem is that the boats in his harbor are funded and crewed from all over Africa, so they're not necessarily going to listen to him when he tells them to knock it off, and his own Navy is sympathetic enough to their viewpoint that he's not sure which way they'd fall if ordered to stop the boats leaving harbor. Figure he can keep the lid on until sunrise, maybe an hour or two after, but sometime during the morning those boats are going to sail and we're not going to be able to stop them."

"And then Bohner makes his move-"

"And we all know what comes after that." Guitierrez fixed Rosemont with a stare. "Rosie, I'm pulling your squadron off Sierra duty. I think you'd better go to your cabin and review the sealed documents there. I think you know which ones."

"Aye aye, Sir." Rosemont wouldn't have wasted that on his friend, normally, but that hadn't been an ordinary order. He left the Flag Bridge and descended three levels to his stateroom, where he locked the door to make sure he wouldn't be disturbed. That done, he folded down the small writing desk from one of the stateroom's bulkheads and reached behind it, dialing the combination into the small safe there by feel. Rosemont pulled a heavy manila envelope out of the safe and laid it on his desk. For a moment he stared at the heavy black seals across the flap, then carefully ran his finger along the seam and broke them. He began to page through the thick bound book inside, whose cover read,

SINGLE INTEGRATED OPERATIONS PLAN

OPTION D- DRAKA ARCHONATE, FULL ATTACK

USN VAH SQUADRON COMMANDER

TOP SECRET- SCI

Rosemont stayed awake for another hour, reading over the details of how his squadron would unleash Armageddon on the last vestiges of the Draka Race. When he finally collapsed from exhaustion, his sleep was uneasy, his dreams haunted by the specter of a mushroom cloud rising over Marseilles and by the face of a young gunner nearly twenty years dead.

_0300 Hours_

_T- 3 Hours, 30 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting_

_Checkpoint Baker, Outside Regentropfen Airport, Madagascar_

D Century rolled down the road towards the Regentropfen perimeter, gun barrels pointed in the air and with all the troops grasping the side rails of their Buffalos. Even that much had taken a crucial half-hour to arrange, and Pietr Ellis could barely keep from grinding his teeth together in frustration. He'd heard nothing about the larger situation since his hurried call with the Archon hours before, but it didn't take a genius to figure that the situation was on a knife's edge. If nothing else, the steady stream of transport aircraft leaving Regentropfen told him that. The Americans were evacuating their enclave.

On another level, he supposed he should be grateful. Regentropfen Airport was the Archonate's only facility capable of handling fixed-wing airplanes, and ever since the Draka had founded Nova Archona the enclave around the it had been American territory by treaty and very jealously guarded. Ellis supposed that it counted as a minor miracle of diplomacy that he'd been allowed to bring a formed body of troops inside the perimeter at all…which in turn meant he didn't have to look back every sixty seconds to make sure troops loyal to Bohner hadn't started some kind of pursuit. _That's the problem with thishere setup,_ he thought, sweeping his commo helmet off for a moment and running a hand through his hair. _I got entirely too many sides shootin' at me. Least for Daddy and Granddaddy, they just had the one_.

Just past the outer fence, a company of American tanks were drawn up, a baker's dozen heavy Greenes with long gun barrels tracking the Century as the gate closed behind them. Ellis had no doubt there were plenty of other hidden guns registered on them- in a way, the display was reassuring. Displaying enough firepower to wipe out the Century was intended to intimidate him into not trying anything- which meant that as long as he didn't, they probably weren't planning to blow the Century away out of hand. Progress. A man in U.S. Army khakis waited out front of the formation. When the Century was perhaps a hundred yards away, he held up one hand in an unmistakeable signal. Ellis spoke into his mic and the Century ground to a halt, then clambered out of his Hyena and strode towards the American officer with McWhirter loping along in tow. The Master Warrant was entirely too Old Domination to like what they were about to do, but he was also entirely too much a soldier to let it affect how he performed his duties. The expression on his face was thunderous as he strode over behind his officer, but he kept his hands carefully in sight and away from his gunbelt.

Ellis drew up opposite the American and saluted, American style hand-to-forehead rather than the Draka fist-to-breast. The other man returned it, then spoke before Ellis could.

"Major Simon Hunter, U.S. Army. We let you come this far because you said you had something for us, Snake. This far, and no farther, so let me tell you the script for the rest of our conversation. You're going to make whatever offer is currently passing through your brain, I'm going to tell you to go to Hell, and you're going to disappear over the horizon before we use your tin cans there for target practice. If you don't think you have something good enough to make me change that script, I suggest you stop wasting both our time and go help whichever side you favor in the little fracas you Snakes have going in the capital."

Another loaded C-67 screamed overhead, saving Ellis from having to come up with a direct response. The backwash ruffled his uniform and almost sent his service cap flying, but he forced himself to hold the American's gaze. This one looked like a wolf, which meant that at the first sign of weakness he could feel jaws around his throat.

"Centurion Pietr Ellis. Major, I do have something for you. I have the location of the nerve gas depot for Merarch Bohner's little toy rockets." Hunter raised an eyebrow, his face still carefully impassive.

"Who's little what nows?" That was it. This might well mean death for the whole Race, but there was only so much a Draka could take. Ellis took a step forward, heedless of the heavy guns backing the man up.

"Almighty Nothing, Yankee, shoot me if yo' will but _please_ don' treat me like I am some manner of idiot child. Yo' and I both know about Merarch Bohner's ballistic missiles, unless yo' flyin' all yo' people home for that damned Thanksgiving Day of yours. Yo' and I both know that if he pops one off, yo' Nothing-damned carrier is goin' make this whole island glow in the dark. If yo' want another option, I know where the warheads for the damned things are, and I'll show yo'."

"In exchange for what? Security for your men?" Ellis rolled his eyes.

"In exchange fo' nothing, Major Hunter. All I want is to pass on this information so that maybe, maybe everyone I care about don't die in the next 24 hours. That convincin' enough for yo'?" The man's dark eyes bored into his for what seemed an eternity. Then he nodded.

"All right, Centurion. You can come ahead, but not your Century. We're not letting them inside the perimeter."

"Hell you say." McWhirter spat the words out, his eyes narrow. "We're not leaving our commandah to-"

"Yes yo' are." Ellis cut him off and turned to face him. "Take the Century off to one of the N2 dispersal sites, Warrant. Use this week's comm schedule and the rendezvous places we talked about on the way up here. Find fuel and supplies, then hunker down and wait for my signal. Don't hear from me by sundown today, then congratulations, you're finally an officer." McWhirter looked even less pleased at that prospect. "My job is to get this information through- and if it comes to that, the Race needs that to happen more than it needs one middlin'-good mechanized Century leader." McWhirter nodded, grudgingly. "Now get gone."

"Sir." McWhirter gave Major Hunter one last harsh glare, then turned to trot back to the collection of vehicles waiting down the road. Ellis turned, once, and spotted Jenny's head sticking out of the command car.

He waved, once.

Almost half an hour later, by his watch, Major Hunter threw open the door to the small interrogation room he'd been hustled into as soon as the Yankees had him. Ellis stood.

"Ready to listen now, Major?"

"No." Hunter looked like he'd bitten into something sour. "I'm not, because it seems that people above my pay grade want to listen to you right away. Come on, Centurion. You're going for a little ride."

_0430 Hours_

_T Minus Two Hours to Sunrise and Counting_

_Aboard USS_ Yarrow

"Big son of a bitch." Rob Delacour swept his eyes over the superstructure of the _Akita Maru_, drinking in the sight of the big freighter. "How you want to play it, Cap'n?"

Ray Archer had been wondering the same thing since they got the order to intercept the Japanese blockade runner hours before, and he still wasn't certain. Normally he'd never have considered boarding a target this big at night- besides all the hazards that maneuvering near an unknown ship in the dark usually brought with it, it would make it harder for his Marines to see any react to any threats. If there was one thing tonight sure as hell wasn't, though, it was anything resembling normal. The all-commands messages he was copying out of Regentrofpen and Venta Bellagrium were looking more worrying by the hour, and the flagship's message had made it utterly clear that there was no time to lose on this one.

All of which meant that, as Captain-under-God, Ray Archer was going to ask his people to do things he'd normally never ask of them. Well, they'd mentioned at the Academy the job could get this way sometimes.

"Easy way first, XO." Archer grabbed the loud-hailer microphone off its clips and keyed it.

"Merchant vessel _Akita Maru_! This is a U.S. Navy Warship operating under the International Quarantine Enforcement Authority! You are in violation of the Restricted Zone and are ordered to stop and heave to immediately or you will be fired on and sunk! You will receive no further warnings!"

As the last echo died away, the heavy snort of marine diesels that had carried across the water to _Yarrow_'s open bridge died away. _Akita Maru_'s headway fell off as she went dead in the water. Archer looked over at Delacour, mouth open.

"No way it's that easy."

"Prob'ly not, Skipper." Delacour gave the merchantman's bridge a dubious glance. "We know what the next move has t' be, though."

"Yeah." Aft, the whaleboat was already swinging out on its davits, the Marine boarders already sitting in it with their weapons slung and ready. As the two men watched, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, it drew up alongside the _Akita Maru_'s flank. The low cough of a grapple mortar carried across the water, and the dark web of a boarding net draped itself over the ship's side. Dark shapes began to crawl up the net, and the first ones tumbled over and onto the deck.

The night exploded.

The first warning Archer had of something unusual was the long flame-tongue of a recoilless rifle shooting out from the Japanese freighter's bridge and slamming into his ship's deck just aft of the 5" turret. A mass of machine guns cut loose, some onto the Marines on deck and some spraying _Yarrow_ down. The ship veered sharply away from the _Akita Maru_, the helmsman pushing his wheel over to get her out of danger without waiting for orders. Another recoilless round barked out, then hissed into the sea where her bow had been just seconds before.

"Jesus Christ!" Archer could still see tracers arcing back and forth over the Japanese ship's deck, so at least some of the Marines were still alive and fighting back. How long that would last with the firepower that seemed to be on that ship was anyone's guess, though. "Damage reports?"

"Still coming'in." Delacour's cheek was torn open in a long, jagged cut and blood was running down across his chin and neck, but his voice was perfectly level. "We got a fire near the five-inch magazine from that hit forward, though. DC team on the scene wants permission to flood." Archer nodded. Flooding the magazine would take his ship's biggest weapon out of action for the duration, but if the fire spread too far the first he'd know about it would be when he saw Saint Peter.

"Do it. Casualties?" Delacour leaned over to yell instructions into the bridge talker's ear, and within seconds Archer could feel the deck shift under his feet as _Yarrow_'s bow ducked down towards the waves. The damage control team must have been waiting by the sea valves. Delacour leaned over again.

"Five dead, Skipper, 'bout a dozen more hit. Nothin' else major." _Yet_ was unspoken between them. Destroyer escorts weren't built to stand up to very much punishment, and whatever was over there was definitely not a merchant vessel. "Radio says they got a contact report off t' Flag, no reply yet."

"Right." The fire from the _Akita Maru_ had slacked off as _Yarrow_ pulled away, and now Archer took a long look over at her. "They won't be able to do much until daybreak, though, and the Marines aren't going to last that long. Japs can just run 'em out of ammo. They sure as hell can't call this off now." Ever since the Armistice in 1944, the U.S. and Japan had glared at each other and fought proxy wars, but Archer could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times American and Japanese regular units had exchanged fire. When they opened fire on the Marines the Japanese had made it clear they were going to carry through whatever they had planned regardless of the cost.

The bridge phone rang, and Archer pulled it off its clips.

"Bridge, Captain here."

"Radio, Skipper. Flag advises they have a Sierra package spooling up now, should become a factor in about thirty minutes. Your discretion on what to do until then, Sir." Archer cursed under his breath. "Sorry, Captain?"

"I said thank you, Radio. Carry on." Archer slammed the phone down. "Flyboys will be here in half an hour, Rob. Three guesses what happens then." Delacour grunted humorless laughter from over by the chart table, where a pharmacist's mate was stitching his cheek while a seaman striker held a flashlight. He waved the mate off for long enough to speak.

"After what happened there, Cap'n? They'll blow it the hell out of the water."

"Yeah." In the military abstract, it was the right thing to do, Archer knew. Whatever was on that ship had to be important, which meant that if it got to Madagascar it would probably further destabilize an already critical situation. Therefore it couldn't be allowed to get there…and therefore the lives of however many Marines were still on the ship's decks couldn't be allowed to matter. Admiral Wallis would

order _Reprisal_'s aircraft to sink the _Akita Maru_ right away.

But those were his people over there, not the Admiral's. And that meant he had about thirty minutes to get them out of there, give or take a few.

"Allright, Rob." Archer kept his eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the Japanese cargo ship, still lit with tracer fire as his Marines fought for their lives. "Here's what we're going to do."

_0450 Hours_

_T Minus One Hour, Forty Minutes to Sunrise_

_Flag Bridge, USS_ Reprisal

_Reprisal_ heeled into a hard turn, and a high, piercing shriek from the flight deck outside filled the flag bridge. Two flights of A2H Vampire light attack bombers were lining up on the catapults, their wings heavy with flare pods and glide bombs, with a pair of F12F Bobcats going along for fighter cover. The nightmare call of the jet engines rose to a deafening roar as the first catapult slammed and a Vampire raced down the deck, but no one on the bridge noticed. They were all fixated on the young, lean man who had just finished speaking, and was now eyeing them with the vibrating tension of a man who had let all his chips fall on the next roll of the dice.

"Well." Admiral Wallis shook his head, and took a commander's privilege to lean against the bulkhead for a moment. "Centurion Ellis, the information you've brought us is quite valuable, no doubt about that. I'm not sure what we can do with it, though."

"What yo' can do with it?" As he looked across the bridge at the American admiral, Pietr Ellis felt his gut clench with sudden, sick anger. "Yo' son of a bitch, I found Bohner's weak spot, the thing that makes him more than an overgrown six year old cooped up with his buddies in a little jungle tree fort. Put myself on the line to bring it to yo', risked my people's lives along the way. And yo' not going to do anything with it?"

"I didn't say that, Centurion!" Wallis rocked forward on his heels, eyes blazing. "Despite what you may think, I want a way out of this that doesn't mean nuking the Draka into extinction! I want alternatives! But I don't see that this gives us one! If the gas Bohner has is anything like the stuff we've been experimenting with, it's going to be resilient. We'd have to rip open all the storage vessels and expose it to enough heat to inactivate the gas, and God help us if we missed even one. I don't see how to do it without a nuke. Hell, I'd use a nuke if I could, better one than a dozen or two, but by the time I convince Washington to let me do it this whole damn thing will be over!" Wallis' face was splotchy red, and he rested his hands on the plot table as he spoke his last words in a husky whisper. "I hate what I'm going to have to do in a few hours, son. I'm sorry. But I don't see another way."

"I might." Both Ellis and Wallis turned to look at Julius Rosemont as he spoke carefully, arms folded over his chest. Neither looked happy- the Admiral at being challenged, the Draka because he would have preferred not to acknowledge Rosemont's presence in the room. "We've got some of those new fuel-air bombs down in the magazines, Admiral. If we get close enough to the nerve gas store with those, they'll give us enough heat and blast to do the job. Next best thing to a nuke."

"But it's not a nuke. You'd have to hit almost dead-on. How are you going to manage that? And won't Bohner's people have something to say about it?"

Rosemont shrugged. "Doubt they have more than one SAM site, Sir. Give me a -4 model with a couple Nails and we can kiss that problem goodbye." The A4R-4 model of the Retaliator sacrificed the internal bomb bay for a sophisticated electronics package that let it sniff out enemy radars and guide Nail antiradiation missiles onto them. "As for accuracy…I'm thinking a couple Deadeye packages."

"Deadeye?" Wallis snorted. "Let's forget for a minute that they've never been tested on the fuel-air jobs-"

"Let's. My ordnance troops will make it work. Stake my pension on it, Sir."

"- how are you planning to mark the target? The area's too heavily guarded for a special forces insertion."

"'Scuse me." Both men turned to look at Ellis, who was regarding them with a sardonic grin. "Just a poor dumb membah of the Master Race ovah here. Somebody want to let me know what this 'Deadeye' thing is all about? Seeing as how it may mean life or death for my people and all." Wallis looked inclined to argue, but Rosemont cut him off.

"It's an experimental system. Uses something we call a COIL projector, for Coherent Illumination- basically, light with only one frequency."

"What, like some kind of zap gun?" Rosemont laughed, his eyes dancing.

"Been watching our decadent bourgeois Tele-V, Centurion? Something like that. Only we can't give it enough power to fry something, but we can use it to mark a spot. Then the Deadeye seeker on the bomb sees the spot and parks the bomb right on top of it. Problem is, somebody's got to be there to put the spot on the target." Rosemont studied the young Draka for a moment, a grin starting to spread on his face. "Someone close. On the ground. Someone who could get inside the perimeter, maybe someone who commands an armored force that could punch the hole we need in Bohner's defenses."

"What?" It took a second. "Oh, _Hell_, no. We'd never make it past those emplacements at the mouth of the valley. Yo' must have-"

"Marine commando teams, yes, but no heavy equipment and no time to get an assault ship into position. As for Bohner's emplacements…they're impressive, from your descriptions. But I think you can crack them, Centurion. Merarch Bohner's forgotten about a little thing the Draka haven't seen since 1945."

"And that is?" Despite himself, Ellis was listening. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Admiral Wallis was too.

"Close air support."

_0510 Hours_

_T Minus 1 Hour, 20 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting_

_Archonal Residence, Nova Archona_

Because he was a gentleman, Eric von Shrakenberg had designed the Archonal Residence to have a pleasant set of ground surrounding it, neatly terraced, planted with flowers and trees, and with a creek and hedges to amuse guests. Because he was a Draka, a paratrooper, and a ruthless pragmatist, the terraces had been carefully laid out to allow open fields of fire from above while obstructing ones from below. The foliage of the top levels had been planted so as to give defenders concealed firing positions, while at the bottom heavy vines sunk roots deep into the soil and made entrenching difficult. The creek bed was currently serving as a trench for a Tetrarchy of loyal Archonal Guards, while a few minutes with a power saw had turned the hedge maze into a concealed firing position for a Scorpion combat car.

"Drop two and fire fo' effect!" From his position with his back to a sandbagged barricade, Eric watched his son's face as he spoke intently into a radio microphone from his perch at the window. The mortars in the garden outside coughed, and a moment later the walls of the Residence echoed with the low, muffed _thud-whaaaam_ of a distant explosion. John howled with glee, keying the mic one more time. "Out-damned standing, Black Nine. That oughta put the fear of God in those sons-of-bitches."

Eric laughed softly to himself, shaking his head from side to side. From her perch at her son's elbow, Sophie looked back at him and quirked an eyebrow in response, giving him a rueful shake of her head before leaning back towards him.

"Kids. One day yo' changin' they diapers and teaching them to talk, next thing yo' know they callin' fo' they own artillery support. Where's the time gone, hey?" Eric let out an honest chuckle at that, letting it break loose into the laughter he so desperately needed.

"Well, he's had the trainin' in school, Sophie. Might as well let his old man get some rest. Tell me true, were we ever that young?"

"Yep." Sophie wagged her eyebrows at him. "Might even remind me of a young officer I used to know."

"Used to? Thank yo' so very much, Decurion-"

"Yo' know, I can hear yo'." Johnny turned back from the window with a mock-scowl, his voice impatient as only a teenager's could be. "And if I can interrupt yo' second honeymoon fo' a minute here, it looks like Bohner's boneheads down there aren't takin' no fo' an answer. Mother, can yo' help me keep commo up to the mortars?"

"Sure thing, sweetlin'." Sophie leaned forward and bent over the field radio they'd taken from the Guard's stores, her fingers moving with the easy dexterity that seventeen years away from the field hadn't been able to erase. After a moment, she looked up, frowning. "Eric, I got somebody breakin' in on the channel. Sounds like young Ellis."

"Ellis?" Eric reached over. Sophie was already holding up a headset just-so, and his fingers closed around it without thought as he pulled it on.

"Fist Actual. That yo', Flashfire?"

"Affirm on that, Fist. Reportin' in." Eric laughed at that.

"'Bout damn time too, youngster. Where are yo', what's yo' situation?" Next to him, he could see Sophie plugged into an earphone, listening just as intently.

Ellis' voice was utterly dry. "Right now, I'm aboard the USS _Reprisal_, Fist, gettin' ready to strap myself to a Yankee whirlybird and ride back to Madagascar. Yankees got a guided bomb they figure can do for Bohner's gas, but somebody needs to spot it. Figure that's me. I can bust in with my Century and maybe-so put paid to this whole deal."

"Yo' Century? Are they still around?"

"Should be, Excellence. Master Warrant McWhirter's got 'em, and I don't think the man's been born who can run the old bastard down."

"McWhirter?" Eric's eyebrows raised. "That Michael McWhirter?"

"Yessir. Ah, you know him?"

"My Senior Decurion a long time back. Yo' right, Centurion. He'll still be out there." Next to him, Sophie was shaking her head, one hand over her mouth to stop the giggles. Eric shook his head to clear it. "Think the Yankees can come through with it?"

"Hope so, Excellence. Man who put the idea up seemed pretty sure." Ellis paused again, his tone even drier. "They attack squadron CO. Might could be you've heard of him. Fella named Rosemont."

"Mother Freya." Eric leaned back against the barricade, shaking his head as he looked up at the sky. "Yo' tellin' me that Julius Rosemont and Attack Squadron One are the Draka's last hope."

"Just so, Excellence. Cheer up. Weren't yo' the one said in yo' book that history had a sense of humor?"

"I did. But it's usually not quite this low brow." Eric laughed anyway, then keyed the mic again. "Good luck, Centurion."

"And yo', Excellence. Talk to yo' in an hour or two, I hope." Both men knew that if he didn't, Ellis probably wouldn't be in any condition to be making any calls at all, and Eric was even less likely to be able to receive them. As the transmission ended, Sophie spoke into the silence.

"So, lemme get this straight. A third of the Draka die, and old Ironbutt the death-fuckah lives. Would've figured him a shoo-in for Gayner's crowd, but guess not. And now we dependin' on him, that puppy, and the Yankee what nuked us all back in '45 to pull our bacon out of the fire? Thor God of Thunder, we might as well slit our throats now."

There was a choked sob from down the hall. As both older Draka turned, they saw Yolande there, her eyes big as she sagged against the wall. Sophie's hand clamped down over her mouth as though she could call the words back, her eyes lowered as she bent over the set. Eric crawled over and looked at the young girl.

"Hey, punkin'. What're yo' doin here? S'posed to be with Anna and Marie down below." Dammit, that had been working so well- the girls were close in age and had been friends all their lives. Why had she gone wandering?

"I…I'm sorry, Uncle Eric. Just…just couldn't be underground no more. Too much like when the bushmen came. I got to thinkin' about how Ma and Pa went away. They said they was gonna come back, but they never did. So I…" She trailed off. "Are we gonna die, Uncle Eric?"

"No." Eric kept his voice firm, looking levelly into his niece's eyes. "No, we not. I didn't make it through all this to have Stonewall Jackson Bohner be the one to punch my ticket. This all gonna be over in an hour or two, sweetlin'. Then we'll come fo yo'. Promise." Yolande bit her lip.

"Can't I stay up here, Uncle Eric? Down there, I keep thinkin'…thinkin' that maybe…"

Eric stared at her for a second, running down options in his mind. Say no, and worry about Yolande running off again at a time when looking for her would be just plain impossible. Say yes…he sighed.

"Stay behind me. I tell yo' to get down, yo' get. Got it?" Yolande nodded, her eyes wide. "Go sit by your Aunt. She tells yo' to hand her the spare battery, do it." Yolande nodded again, pressing herself up against Sophie as she visibly fought not to shake. Eric met his wife's eyes, and shrugged. She returned the gesture with an ironic grin.

Outside, the sky began to flush in the east with the first light of dawn. Not for the first time, Eric wondered what that light would bring


	5. Chapter 4

_0450 Hours_

_T Minus 1 Hour, 10 Minutes to Sunrise_

_Outside Hangar Deck Two, USS_ Reprisal

Captain Jaime Guitierrez waited with his arms folded as Rosemont came out of the life support shop, flight plan in one hand and crash helmet in the other. The expression on his face was like an Old Testament prophet about to call down hellfire and thunder on the unfaithful.

"God damn you, Rosemont. I told you to assign this mission to somebody." Rosemont grinned in response, stopping just a few feet away from his senior.

"I did, Sir. I assigned it to me."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. Dammit, your squadron is still on Alpha Alert for SIOP duty. You're supposed to be getting them ready to hit their assigned targets." Rosemont's grin slipped, and though his tone stayed light for a moment there was no mistaking the seriousness in his eyes.

"I have every confidence in Commander Heatherly, Sir. And with all due respect, I'd much rather spend my time making sure my squadron doesn't have to carry out that Alpha Strike. Think I've dropped enough nukes for one lifetime already."

Guitierrez grunted and looked his old friend over. "Point taken. But-"

"But nothing, Jaime." Rosemont took a step closer, lowering his voice against the chance of lower-ranking ears about. "I know the squadron skipper's supposed to stay in the back, provide leadership, and let the studs with hot reflexes and young eyes take the tough missions. But dammit, I can still out-fly and out-bomb any man in my squadron. And since the Navy won't promote me I've been on flying duty- which means a lot of time out at the China Lake weapons station, which means I'm the only man in my squadron who's actually dropped a Deadeye. So who else am I going to send?"

Guitierrez made a sour phase. "If you get yourself killed stunting off up there, Rosie, so help me God I will piss on your grave." Rosemont laughed.

"This close to Snake Central, Jaime? You'll have to take a number and wait in line." They slapped palms and walked together into the hangar bay, where they both stopped dead. Guitierrez was the first to break the silence.

"Looks like your crew agrees with you, Rosie." Rosemont nodded, momentarily speechless. VAH-1's ground crew had been run ragged over the past nightmare hours, the usual routine and hard work of a long cruise disintegrating as they prepped the squadron's Retaliators for recon runs, then antishipping duty, then nuclear strike. Just as they'd finished the last of that job, Admiral Wallis had approved Rosemont's hairbrained scheme- which meant that two of the A4Rs that they'd just finished prepping for nuke duty had to be rearmed and ready for launch in less than an hour. He'd known they could do it, though he'd been ready to do a closer than normal systems check before taking off. But hell, this-

It was VAH-1's squadron commander bird, to start with, the one with his name under the canopy rail. That had been underlined with a stripe in the Myrmidons' shade of deep blue that ran the whole way along the fuselage to a defiantly large "USS REPRISAL" stencil at the tail. The twin tails had been done in gloss-white, the better to show off the full-color squadron badges painted on them in the squadron colors of blue and gold. The plane _gleamed_ with the sign of a very careful slicking-up job, the kind you only did for airshows- or for missions the crew knew were important enough to spend hours getting the pilot a few extra knots of speed when it mattered. Rosemont could see the last few pairs of legs working in her engine bays and under the nose, and knew that when he strapped into the cockpit his bird would be running better than the day the Navy accepted her from the Ryan factory. The only things on the plane that didn't gleam were the heavy six-racks of olive-green low-drag bombs under each wing glove, combining with the Retaliator's pointed silhouette to make her look positively lethal.

The real kicker, though, came when Rosemont saw Tech One Hereford, his plane captain, step away from the nose where he'd been working with a can of black paint. As he watched, Hereford put the last stroke on an "o", finishing the name "_Spirit of Rio_" just below his name on the side of the plane. He turned around and braced to attention with a grin, setting down the paint can for a salute worthy of an Annapolis parade ground.

"Glad you made it, Sir. I hope the Commander approves?" Rosemont just stared for a moment, as the last of the ground crew lowered themselves away from the Retaliator and met his eyes with wide smiles. After a moment he returned the salute, and walked forward to pump Hereford's hand.

"Approve? God, you know I could never ask-"

"Didn't have to, Sir." Hereford was still smiling as the ground crew gathered around, closing ranks behind him. "Just give 'em hell when you're out there. From all of us." Rosemont nodded, clearing his throat around a lump that had grown up all of a sudden. Those were almost exactly the words his plane captain had sent him off with twenty years ago, launching in another _Spirit of Rio_ off another _Reprisal_. Now, God willing, he'd make sure nobody had to repeat what he'd been called on to do all those decades before.

"Thanks, Chief. All of you. You can count on it." They cleared out of his way, then, let him run his fingers carefully over the cool metal of her side, avoiding the places where the paint was still sticky on her name. He'd never let any of his other mounts bear the name since the terrifying nights of the Mediterranean campaign, but this felt right. It was right.

Julius Rosemont was old, but he jumped up on the plane's boarding ladder and swung into the cockpit as though he were getting into a primary trainer back at Pensacola before the Eurasian War. He dropped his gear between the seats and started running over the prestart checklists, only peripherally aware of the plane crew as they started to push him towards the aircraft elevator or the old friend who stood watching them.

_0500 Hours_

_T Minus One Hour to Sunrise_

_Bridge, USS_ Yarrow

"We ready, Rob?" Ray Archer craned his neck out the bridge wing as he looked over at the dark silhouette of the _Akita Maru_. The tracer fire had died down considerably over the past 20 minutes, as his Marines tried to save their ammo for bad patches. Considering that they were trapped on a hostile freighter and pinned down by an unknown but superior number of enemies who had position on them, Archer tried not to think about what a bad patch might entail for them.

"Better be, Cap'n." Delacour's soft-toned voice was casual behind him, but his eyes were bright, scanning from side to side as he mentally ticked off reports coming in off his sound-powered headset. "Strike says they're holding, but they've got to go in the next ten minutes. Liable to get a bit exciting once they do." Archer grunted agreement.

"Allright, then, let's do it. Helm, hard a starboard, all ahead emergency!" _Yarrow_'s diesels rose to a deep, rumbling thunder as the helmsman threw his wheel over, heeling the ship into a steep turn from where she'd been pacing the Japanese ship just off her port quarter. The _Akita Maru_'s quarterdeck lit with weapons fire again as she opened up on _Yarrow_ with guns and rockets, streaks of light and hellishly loud noise that sizzled the sea around her as she drew closer to her prey. The three-inchers replied with slow, even barks that were nothing like their usual quick stammer, each round carefully aimed to make sure it didn't wipe out the Marine boarding party. Archer watched as the Japanese freighter cut in front of the bridge, leaning forward over the helmsman's shoulder.

"Steady." No time to take sightings or ranges, had to do this by eye. "Ease her up a bit now, let's not get too far…" The nineteen year old seaman first on the wheel nodded, and started pushing his ship back over. An antitank rocket exploded just off their bow as _Akita Maru_ pulled ahead, the big freighter's engines surging as _Yarrow_ cut across her wake. "Ease her up a bit more, let's get on an even keel." The helmsman nodded again, his eyes fixed on binnacle and inclinometer as the Japanese fire dropped off. They were coming up on _Akita Maru_'s stern now, too close for the guns to depress.

"Ready to port! Safeties zero!" Archer heard the mechanical whine of his ship's torpedo tubes snapping out to their firing position, imagined the torpedomen swearing as they deactivated the safety locks that normally kept the fish from exploding too close to their parent ship. "Fire as you bear!"

A long pause, almost too long, and then _Yarrow_ shook with a heavy, dull series of thumps as her torpedoes launched out of their tubes and into the Indian Ocean. Archer had just enough time to shut his eyes before a blue-white explosion rocked the night and his ship _dropped_, as though the ocean had suddenly fallen away a few feet beneath her keel. He opened them again to see _Akita Maru_'s headway falling off, and howled with glee. _Yarrow_'s suicidally close shot had blown out her propellers. Archer leaned forward, shouting to let himself be heard over the ringing in his ears.

"Reverse hard to port! Rob, blue flares!" Delacour nodded and sprinted out to the bridge wing, raising the flare gun he'd kept at his side and pumping a blue starshell straight up into the air. Another burst, and another, and Archer could see the big Santo Domingan pumping them out as quickly as his hands could work the breech. Blue, the emergency recall signal for the borders, as _Yarrow_ came about in another tight turn up _Akita Maru_'s starboard side and Archer yanked her throttles back. Briefly, he blessed their diesel-electric plant, letting them match speeds much more quickly than a steam powered ship could have. Then they were alongside the bow, and there was nothing to do but pray-

-And scream triumph as he saw the first rope come over _Akita Maru_'s side, the second, a broad cargo net and dark shapes tumbling down from the Japanese merchantman's blood-swept decks and down to sprawl around the forward deck and the five-inch mount. Gunfire started again from the Japanese merchant ship's stern again, wicking across the deck, and still the Marines came. Finally a last form tumbled down to _Yarrow_'s deck and raised his hands over his head, the traditional signal for "all back", and Archer watched them start forward for the lines. A few more shapes tried to slide down the net, but the Marines had their breaths now and formed into a line, raking the would-be boarders with automatic weapons fire. Then the ropes were gone, chopped away by eager Ka-Bar knives, and _Yarrow_ shot away from the Japanese ship as Archer bent her throttles forward to the stops. Behind her, _Akita Maru_ slammed out a few last shots before the American destroyer pulled out of range.

"Hot damn! Did it, Cap'n!" Archer grinned over at Delacour as he walked in from the bridge wing, his dark faced streaked even blacker with powder burns from the flare gun.

"That we did, Mister Delacour. That we did. Would you do the honors, please?" Delacour's grin turned just as savage as his captain's as he clicked over to a radio circuit.

"Nightrider 303, this is Sidecar. All boarding party members recovered. She's all yours, gents." There was a pause, and then a scream as Vampire attack jets began dropping from the sky, bright parachute flares blooming over the ocean as they began their attack runs. Archer watched with bare teeth as they began to work _Akita Maru_ over, then gestured with one hand.

"Helm, take us back in there, please. We're going to want survivors."

_0520 Hours_

_T Minus 40 Minutes to Sunrise_

_Hide Point Dragon-Three, 10 km west of Ragnarok Project Primary Site_

_Madagascar_

Centurion Pietr Ellis carefully swept his snooper scope across the valley three klicks in front of their position, taking a final note of the infared signatures clustered on the twin hilltops guarding the entrance. He eased down into the back of his Hyena, where Jenny and Warrant McWhirter waited with the trained stillness of the Draka. He nodded, fractionally.

"Looks like they-all still have it just like we reconned it, Jenny. Two big emplacements on the hilltops, probably still smaller fallbacks just inside. Put the Scorpions out front, they can deal with anythin' inside the valley no problem. Fo' the rest, well-" Ellis shrugged, "-fo' that we'll just have to trust the Yankees."

McWhirter grunted, and Ellis looked over at him sharply. "Problem, Master Warrant?"

"No, suh." McWhirter didn't sound that pissed off, or at least not any more pissed off than normal, but it didn't take a genius to tell he wasn't happy with the setup. "Just meditatin' on the fact that if the same Yankees who blew us back here to Madagascar don't come through fo' us, it goin' to get awful lonely chargin' across the plain until we get far enough in that the guns can't depress on us."

"Needs must." Ellis' voice was soft, but firm, and the words were an unanswerable argument among the Draka. "Unless yo'd prefer knockin' them out with our own fire support?" McWhirter spat off the Hyena's side, but didn't comment further. The emplacements weren't that heavily dug in, but unless Bohner's people had completely taken leave of their senses they'd have enough overhead protection to make suppressing them with a pair of SP automortars a tough and time-consuming task. And time was the one thing they didn't have if this whole damn thing was going to work.

"Thought not. One more thing, Master Warrant." McWhirter looked over sharply, and Ellis smiled tightly. "Turn yo' car over to your 2IC. Want yo' in with the infantry fo' this one." McWhirter thought for a moment, then nodded.

"Can do, suh. Show these mama's boys and daddy's girls how to handle a good old-fashioned fist fight." The Draka were still born and bred to war, but with the demands of running an entire society without slave labor they couldn't spare the hundreds of hours every Old Domination child had spent studying _pankration_ and close-combat techniques. As it was damn few of his picked and trained Reaction Cohort troopers could touch McWhirter, for all that the Master Warrant was on the wrong side of sixty and had a body that looked like it had been used as a chopping board. Of course, most of the point of modern warfare was to make sure that you didn't get yourself into a close-quarters fight where things depended on your ability to kill somebody else with an entrenching tool, but if the situation did come up Ellis was going to make damn sure his Century won.

McWhirter nodded to his commander and headed off for one of the Buffalo troop carriers, stripping off his heavy flak jacket and taking a moment to rearrange his gear. As Ellis watched, he drew a steel machete in an old, cracked leather holster from his pack and carefully strapped it to the front of his left thigh, then carefully drew the blade to strop it against a whetstone as he hummed tunelessly to himself. Jenny Smith looked over from beside him.

"Damned if the old jackal don't scare me sometimes, Centurion." Ellis grunted.

"Join the club, Jenny. Join the club. But we goin' to need a jackal or two on our side, does we want to live to see the sun go down tonight."

_0525 Hours_

_T Minus 35 Minutes to Sunrise_

_Flight Deck, USS_ Reprisal

"Good morning, Lieutenant Brown." Julie Rosemont looked over and favored his bombardier with a broad smile as the younger man hoisted himself over the canopy rail and started strapping in to his ejection seat. "Ready for our morning flight to exotic, beautiful Madagascar?"

"None of this was my idea, Sir. Like, not even a little bit." Brown's face was drawn and pale as he finished strapping in and let his fingers dance over the Retaliator's- the _Spirit_'s cockpit keyboard, inputting the navigation and bombing program he'd just brought up from _Reprisal_'s computer center. "All they said about this job was that I'd have to drop nukes. Nothin' about stooging over some island at Mach One waiting for the Snakes to shoot us down."

"Well, you were a bit busy I admit. But I knew you'd hate to miss this one, Mad Dog, so I volunteered for you."

"Fuck you very much, Sir."

"What was that, mister?"

"I said, thank you very much, Sir!" Rosemont chuckled over the intercom as the start cart operator gave him the thumbs-up, hands moving almost absently over the _Spirit_'s control panel as the twin General Electric turbojets began the slow, rumbling whine of their startup sequence. The canopy clicked shut as Brown finished loading his program and checking the radar and nav systems, indicator lights winking a lethal green as the taxi director drew them forward across the flight deck. They had a clear shot from where they'd been parked aft of the island to the bow of the ship, where the alert fighters had been drawn aside to allow the _Spirit_ and Warhammer 504, the A4R-4 SEAD airframe that would be riding shotgun on them, onto the #1 and 2 catapults. Aft at the ship's angled decks, a pair of A2H Vampires waited, their crescent wings heavy with buddy store refueling pods and extra gas tanks.

Rosemont toed the _Spirit_- strange how easily that name slid into his mind after twenty years!- to a stop at the catapult, hands running automatically through the control and engine checks as the deck crew finished fastening him onto the catapult. The horizon swerved, and Rosemont could see _Reprisal_'s massive bulk turning into the wind. Half-jokingly he keyed the intercom and said,

"Last chance to back out, Mad Dog." The bombardier still looked a little white around the gills, but he just snorted.

"Like I'd ever live that down. Take the shot, Captain Sir, or I will get out and we'll see how you handle this mission solo." Rosemont laughed. The kid would be all right. And then there was no more time, as first one, then the other Vampire tanker flashed by to his left and climbed up into the sky that was just starting to tinge with the first hint of dawn. Then Warhammer 504 was gone in a rush of steam and hot exhaust, and the taxi directors hands were making the old log-rolling motion of run-'em-up. Rosemont pushed his throttles forward and past the detents, feeling the _Spirit_ strain against her tie-downs as the afterburners cut in. He turned his head and snapped a quick salute to the catapult officer, then sucked in a breath.

_SLAM_, and the Ryan A4R Retaliator hurtled off the carrier deck like a toy airplane attached to a rubber band. The usual eternity, and then Rosemont felt the wings catch and carefully banked off to the left, turning towards the still unseen coast of Madagascar.

_0530 Hours_

_T Minus 30 Minutes to Sunrise_

_Ragnarok Project Primary Site, Madagascar_

"It's confirmed." Major Ito's face was drawn and pale as he looked across the command table at Stonewall Jackson Bohner. Not even the Imperial Japanese Army's legendary discipline could keep the man's voice steady. "The _Akita Maru_ and her troops are lost. We have lost."

"Hell we have." Bohner leaned forward. "We proceed as planned."

"But, Merarch-" Bohner chopped a hand down, abruptly.

"But, nothing. Listen. We've still got our missiles, we've still got troops in Archona, and we've still got thousands of bushmen waiting to swoop down and burn, kill, and rape everything Draka they can get their hands on. Nothing's changed, Major, and I'm not any more willing to let members of the Race die than I was before yo' little plan failed. Yo' just get on the horn and tell yo' people to be ready to tell the President that my people are under yo' nuclear umbrella after we launch." Ito shifted uncomfortably, moistening his lips.

"That may be true, Merarch. But without our forces in firm control of the island, it may be more difficult for the Imperial government to recognize you as the legitimate Draka government, and thus more difficult to protect you with our special arsenal. Perhaps we should consider-"

"Consider _what_, precisely?" Bohner's eyes narrowed. "Replanning? Retrenchment? Another decade of buildups, perhaps, until yo're convinced that everything is ready fo' another master stroke? Major, let me explain yo' a little something." Bohner leaned forward, his eyes bright and intently focused. "Yo' people started this little crisis. Yo' may have thought that means yo' control it. Well, yo' don't. This is my time, this is my hour, and yo've got one choice. Either get behind or get out of my way, because so help me Almighty Thor if you try to get in my way I will stake yo' out and leave yo' fo' the _fuckin'_ ants. Do we understand one another?"

Ito nodded, a bead of sweat trickling between his shoulderblades. Merarch Bohner had always seemed a useful tool before. A fanatic, to be sure, but a fanatic with understandable goals and simple desires- power and security. Dangerous, to be sure, but no more so than a tiger in a wild beast show that did tricks when the trainer required it. Now, for the first time, he got a glimpse of what lay beneath for the old Draka, and of just how very wrong they'd all been.

"I understand perfectly, Merarch. With your permission, I shall communicate with Tokyo and make the necessary arrangements." Bohner nodded, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. Before Ito could leave, a young officer stuck his head in the tent.

"Excuse me, Merarch? Warhead loading is complete. We can launch in half an hour."

Stonewall Jackson Bohner looked outside the command bunker, to where the first of the missiles was starting to lift slowly into the upright position against the lightening sky. The look on his face turned Shoichi Ito's guts to ice.

"Very good. Inform Doctor Nesmith that he may begin fueling when ready.


	6. Chapter 5

_0535 Hours_

_T Minus 25 Minutes to Sunrise_

_Outside Ragnarok Project Primary Site, Madagascar_

Trooper Andrew McIlheny peered down at the valley below him and swore softly to himself. The dawn's first light was just starting to kiss the horizon, but there was already enough light for McIlheny to see a long, evil cylindrical shape being raised up into a vertical position. From his position on top of one of the hills overlooking the valley, snugged into a small dip near the crest and covered with leaves and camouflage netting, he could see the vague stirrings of men around it, moving fuel tanks and hoses into position. Not much time now. Had to call it in.

Before he could move, though, a soft crunching sound came from up the trail, and McIlheny froze. His eyes tracked the three-man sentry patrol as it swept along the trail and past his position, not moving a muscle save to blink. The troopers making the sweep were good, one in the center with two flankers slightly back, alert and scanning every inch of the jungle in front of them- but McIlheny was one of Century D's Reconnaissance Commando troopers, and he'd had time to prepare his position.

Bohner's men walked past without breaking stride, and McIlheny slid backwards off the hill's crest. Ten yards back, a barely-there whisper stopped him.

"Hey, Ninja." McIlheny chuckled, once, barely more than a stuttering breath. He'd picked up the nickname back when he first volunteered for Recondo training, when some wise-ass in the cadre wanted to know who'd ever heard of a Scottish ninja. He'd hated it, which meant it stuck like glue.

"Screw you, V." Trooper Vehrec grinned as he rose up out of the shadowed ground.

"Later on, maybe. Whatcha got?" McIlheny sobered.

"Bohner's boneheads are fueling their missiles. Saw it." Vehrec winced.

"Goddammit." He was already reaching for the handset of his shoebox-sized radio, concealed here where he could raise the antenna without it being seen from the hill's crest. "I'll call it in. Probably be up in a minute." McIlheny nodded silently. They were going to have to go, and soon. The next time the patrol went by their little hide would be the last, and then they had a visit to pay to an antitank gun sited on top of this hill to command the valley below.

As he crawled back up the hill, carrying one of their heavy demolition charges, McIlheny could hear Vehrec talking into his whisper mic.

"Flashfire, Vendetta, this is Lightning One…"

_0540 Hours_

_20 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting_

_Bridge, USS _Reprisal

"Captain." Jaime Guitierrez turned to see Lieutenant Cullers, the ship's communications officer, poke his head in from the radio shack just behind the bridge. "Beg your pardon, Sir, but we've got a message from the Snake Recondo teams. Bohner's getting ready to make his move." Guitierrez cursed to himself, flicking his eyes over at the horizon, just starting to glow with light. Too soon. Too damned soon! With an effort, he mastered himself and turned back to Cullers.

"Very well, Lieutenant. Pass the word to the _Spirit_ and let Rosie know he's got a deadline." Officially, Captain Rosemont's plane was on the flight schedule as Warhammer 501, but nobody was calling it that today. Cullers saluted and left the bridge, leaving Guitierrez to stare out into the predawn gloom. The ship's #1 elevator, just forward of the island, was in the down position, and Guitierrez could see down to the flight deck, the men moving around there on errands he prayed to all the saints were fruitless. Errands that he knew might still have to be carried all the way to their awful ends before the sun set.

_0541 Hours_

_19 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting_

_Hangar Deck One, USS _Reprisal

"Make a hole!" Chief Aviation Ordnanceman Chris O'Farrell led the charge from the #2 bomb hoist, clearing the way for the men behind him and listening for any sudden clicking from the Geiger counter at his belt. It was a million to one that he'd hear anything out of the ordinary, of course, but The Book said that you had one on whenever you moved anything nuclear and this was one case in which you definitely did not disregard The Book. Behind him Petty Officer Declan pushed a yellow-painted cart across the hangar deck's nonskid surface. The cart was almost entirely taken up by an almost featureless white oval shape, with only a small set of fins at the rear to indicate that it was even a bomb- let alone one capable of turning an entire city into a smoking ruin. Beneath the bomb, on the side of the yellow ordnance cart, some wise-ass had stenciled "THIS IS NOT A TOY" in black spraypaint.

They pulled the cart up to Warhammer 509, one of the Myrmidons' remaining bomber airframes. The internal bomb bay's doors had already been cranked open, and O'Farrell took his place at the other end of the cart and caught Declan's eye.

"When you're ready." His partner nodded, letting his thumb come down on the cart's electric lift button, lifting the nuclear bomb most of the way up into the Realiator's bomb bay. When it was six inches or so from the rack, O'Farrell reached in and cranked the racks down the rest of the way, snapping the ordnance lugs into place. Declan cranked the cart down, and they both stepped back. O'Farrell slapped the third man on the team on the shoulder, pointing in towards the white nuclear shape.

"All yours, Shep." The fuze man grinned widely, ducking in with the ease of long practice and taking a screwdriver from his belt as he went to install the bomb's detonators. O'Farrell shook his head. Shep was one of the best ordnance technicians on _Reprisal_ and he wouldn't want anyone else getting "his" bomb ready, but sometimes the man seemed a bit too eager to see the nukes fly.

For a minute, O'Farrell looked around the hangar bay, taking in the sights around him. Ordnance teams like his own were moving towards all of the squadron's Retaliators, each bearing a single nuclear bomb. They had stood up for strategic alert before, in countless drills and once even for real on a memorable WestPac that had left them staring down Japanese Navy planes flying out of Thailand, but this time it was different. This time, unless the Old Man pulled off another one of his certified ass-crazy stunts, the birds were gonna fly and the bombs were gonna fall.

He really, really hoped the Old Man knew what he was doing.

_0542 Hours_

_T Minus 18 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting_

_Aboard _Spirit of Rio

Captain Julius Rosemont grimaced as he heard the report relayed over the airwaves from _Reprisal_. They had only a very, very little time left. Well, that was all right. He only needed a very, very little time to pull his plan off, and Navy Aviation didn't encourage dallying anyhow.

Rosemont carefully eased his throttles back and pulled away from the crescent-winged Vampire attack jet that had just finished topping off his tanks. The drogue-and-hose refueling apparatus retracted back into the "buddy" store beneath the Vampire's right wing, and Rosemont nodded slightly in satisfaction. Strictly speaking the Retaliator didn't need refueling to hop over to Madagascar and drop some bombs, but if they were going to make this work it was going to mean a lot of stooging around on the deck, low and fast with the burner lit. That would suck up gas like nobody's business, but it was also the only way to get the job done.

"504's set." Brown had been watching over his right shoulder as their wingman finished his own refueling, and Rosemont nodded. Saint and Mondo were the Myrmidon's best defense-suppression crew, and having them along with a full bag of gas made it that much more likely they could pull this scam off. One problem down, several thousand to go. He keyed the radio.

"Thanks, Maya. Thanks, Chewie. Hate to drink and run, but seems we've got an appointment to keep." The Vampire flight leader chuckled back.

"Buy us a drink next time we're in port, Rosie. And good luck." The two light attack jets broke off and headed back for _Reprisal_, and Rosemont looked over at Brown.

"Okay, Mad Dog, first waypoint. Let's get low, and let's get fast." Brown nodded, and a second later a white steering bug blipped up on his horizontal navigation display. Rosemont eased the stick over to track it and dove for the deck, pushing the twin throttles forward to full military power. As they dove for the dark sea below, he flipped his radio over to the common frequency they'd agreed on with Ellis.

"Flashfire, this is Spirit. Eight minutes. Repeat, eight minutes. Over."

_0544 Hours_

_T Minus 16 Minutes to Sunrise_

_Hide Point Dragon-Three, Madagascar_

"Copy." Jenny White spoke into her handset, then glanced over at Centurion Ellis. "Eight minutes, Centurion. Spirit's on her way in." Ellis nodded, jaw tightening. He hated to wait when he felt any minute could bring a missile shooting up from inside that valley, signaling the death of the Race, but he didn't have a choice. Besides, unless his Recondo troopers had been very negligent or Bohner's people were very, very good they'd need at least fifteen or twenty more minutes to crank the missiles into vertical position, fuel them, and launch them. Moving faster would court accidents.

Ellis grinned tightly at that. Not that he'd mind if one of Bohner's boneheads had a little accident with a warhead full of D7 gas, of course.

"Allright, Draka! Eight minutes! Get hot!" There was a stir of activity from the clearing around him, muffled and furtive but none the less intense for all of that. The Century's troopers had mostly been hiding inside their vehicles for the past half hour or so, huddling together under cover to make sure they kept out of sight. Now they moved, quickly but quietly, pushing aisde camo netting and checking their personal weapons. Decurion Pelranius, one of the Buffalo commanders, was adjusting the feed on his vehicle's boiler with a fixed expression Ellis had seen before- the one a man wears when he's about to go into a situation utterly outside his control, so he focuses on getting the one thing he can control absolutely right.

Next to one of the vehicle's tires, Warrant McWhirter took Trooper Borg's machete and brought it down onto a hollow bamboo stalk, chopping halfway through before the blade stuck in the fleshy green material. McWhirter shook his head, and Ellis stepped closer to hear what he was saying.

"See, kid? Keen's good, but too sharp an edge and it'll stick right into bone instead of cutting through. Here." McWhirter tapped open the handle of his own knife, taking out a small file and carefully drawing it across the blade. "I'll show you how to put a bevel on her. Do it right and she'll hack right through a neck like nothin'." Borg looked interested, but also a bit disturbed at the man who would shortly be charging into battle at his side. Ellis snorted mentally. There was progress for the Race, if you liked.

The first bits of the sun were starting to show themselves, blood-red streaks of light burning across the horizon and through the jungle cover around them. Ellis looked down, carefully checking the Holbars he'd taken from company spares one last time. Then he sat on his command car's upper deck, eased back into the sun, and closed his eyes to savor the warmth for a moment.

His people were ready as he could make them. He'd go over the plan one more time with his Tetrarchs in a minute or two. But for now, Pietr Ellis was going to savor a couple of what might be the last minutes of peace he'd ever have, as the sun rose inexorably higher in the sky


	7. Chapter 6

_0548 Hours_

_T Minus Twelve Minutes to Sunrise _

_Aboard _Spirit of Rio

According to U.S. Navy press releases, the Ryan A4R-5 Retaliator heavy attack bomber had a top speed of Mach 2. Diving from the stratosphere in afterburner, stripped of everything including the paint, perhaps. At 200 feet off the deck, hauling a full bag of gas and several tons worth of Uncle Sam's very best high explosives, Julie Rosemont felt lucky to be pushing Mach 0.95. _Spirit of Rio_ cut through the heavy, humid morning air like a finely balanced throwing knife, the shock wave of her passing throwing up a curtain of salt spray in her wake and intermittently covering her nose with ephemeral clouds of condensed water vapor. Rosemont flew on, hands making almost imperceptible adjustments to stick and throttle as his eyes slid from instruments to his navigation display and then back to the predawn horizon.

_Spirit of Rio_ thundered over the beach and over Madagascar, with Warhammer 504 following closely in her wake. Next to Rosemont in the _Spirit_'s cockpit, Lieutenant Brown checked one of his displays, threw a switch on the radar panel, and keyed his mic.

"Spirit is feet dry and four balls. We have the lead." Beneath his oxygen mask, Rosemont felt his face stretching into a grin. The _Spirit_'s internal navigation system had predicted the point where they'd cross from sea to land within a tenth of a mile. Rosemont had spent a year as a production test pilot for the Retaliator, and he knew damn well that you were lucky to get that kind of accuracy on the day the bird rolled off the production line. He owed Chief Hereford a bottle of the good stuff as soon as they all made it to someplace that had liquor.

"Terrain coming up." The screen in front of him shifted as Brown brought his radar on line, sweeping in a regular arc back and forth in front of the _Spirit_. The terrain following radar's output filled the screen, the curves of the next ten miles of earth spilling out in a long strip while a blip danced at the left edge, the peaks sliding towards it but never touching. This was the Retaliator's real secret weapon, the ability to follow the ground's contours so precisely that the first warning of its presence would be bombs exploding in the enemy's laps. In theory, an autopilot mode existed to link the radar and the Retaliator's brain so the plane would automatically maintain a set clearance from the ground, hugging the earth tighter than any pilot could hope to. In practice, the Retaliator's radar and computer still managed to pack it in completely on about one flight in four. Squadron lore had quickly labeled the Terrain Engage button the "Suicide Switch", and even with the best bird he'd ever ridden Rosemont wasn't touching it. He'd trust his own eyes and reflexes much sooner than he'd trust the plane's computer.

The two Retaliators swept low over the rolling green hills of Madagascar, the very tops of which were just starting to show the sun's first light. A low bass tone sounded in Rosemont's helmet, and he grimaced. It looked like the Cobra site operators were up with the dawn too, and no matter how closely he and Mondo managed to lose themselves in the ground return the Snakes had to notice something sooner or later. Well, in another minute or so it wouldn't matter.

"Sixty seconds to target." Brown reached up to start the _Spirit_'s clock, ticking off in the corner of Rosemont's vision. He'd sent that one on the radio too, a warning to Ellis' people that their moment was coming. "Pilot, IP in thirty. Stand by." Brown's voice was high-pitched with nerves, but a quick glance at the radar told Rosemont that his cue was right on time. As long as his navigating and bombing were on the money, the kid could sing falsetto for the whole flight as far as Julie Rosemont cared. He counted ten, then slid the _Spirit_ over onto her right wing, letting Mondo in 504 see him signaling the turn. Fifteen seconds. Ten.

"IP!" Brown's cue came just as Rosemont hauled the stick back, reefing the _Spirit_ over into a tight, low turn that left them pointed straight for the entrance of Bohner's valley sanctuary. He rolled out, aiming the nose at one of the two bluffs guarding the entrance by feel rather than by the system's cues, watching the cliffs almost blur as the _Spirit_ shot towards them at nearly the speed of sound. He saw the screen light with a time-to-release cue as Brown slewed the radar around and locked it onto the target, and squeezed the trigger on his stick to give the Retaliator's brain permission to drop the bombs.

At long last, it was show time.

_0550 Hours_

_T Minus Ten Minutes to Sunrise_

_Hide Point Dragon Three_

For Centurion Pietr Ellis, the battle began with a low, distant rumble in the sky. It grew nearer, closer, like some impossibly long peal of thunder, and then a pair of dagger shapes streaked past the Century's hide point, impossibly fast as they shot out and over the bluffs Bohner's people had fortified. A brief flicker of motion from their wings, a suggestion of vanes snapping taut in midair as the shapes accelerated still faster.

Then the bluffs disappeared in a bright orange and yellow flash, fireballs and smoke running up into the dimly lit sky, and the hammering of the explosions mixed with the high _crack_ of the Retaliators' sonic booms as they shot out over their target. The sheer impact of it stunned him, but he'd at least had time to steel himself. Within a few seconds he slapped his driver on the back of the helmet, bellowing in his ear.

"Go! Go, go, go!" Reflexively the man stomped down on the gas, shaking his head and focusing on the task at hand once the familiar sensations of the Hyena in motion took over his senses. As the ringing in his ears cleared, Ellis could hear the snarls of diesels as the rest of the scout cars followed, then the rest of the Century. Eternal Nothing knew that his men and women were probably all a little shell-shocked by that performance, but years of combat experience stood them in good stead as they instinctively followed their commander's vehicle.

Third Tetrarchy, the Century's self-appointed wild men, had their damned speaker system wired to the outside of their Buffalos again. Now as the Century roared across the open plain music started to play, felt in the chest more than heard as it added to the cacophony of a mechanized company on the attack. Tribal drums and steel guitars, music from the new generation of Draka who half-ironically wrote songs in the voices of their former serfs, using words that could just as well apply to the Draka since 1945.

_White man came, across the sea_

_He brought us pain and misery_

_He killed our tribe, he killed our creed_

_He took our game for his own need_

_We fought him hard, we fought him well_

_Out on the plains, we gave him hell-_

Ellis leaned forward to yell in the driver's ear, then stopped himself as the man automatically slowed to let the Scorpion combat cars take the lead. Good. Better still were the heavy black puffs of shells bursting in front of them, the Century's SP automortars firing off full clips of smoke rounds boresighted three quarters of the way to the target. More tricks to confuse Bohner's people, buy the rest of the Century time. The music played on, a message for any of them who cared to hear as the Draka vehicles screamed towards their targets.

_Run to the hills_

_Run for your lives_

_Run to the hills_

_Run for your lives_

_0550 Hours_

_Outside Ragnarok Project Primary Site_

_Madagascar_

If the Retaliators' bombing run was impressive from a few kilometers away, it was apocalyptic up close. Gouts of fire, pulverized rock, and twisted metal shot up into the sky, and all Trooper McIlheny could do was hold on as the earth trembled, seemingly trying to shake his prone body off. He'd stood close fire from howitzers before, but nothing like this.

Then it stopped, and McIlheny shook his head, throwing off the hint of glassy shock that had begun to cover his perceptions, and hurled himself to his feet. Just enough time to get himself up to a full sprint, then he was out onto the trail, catching the backs of Bohner's roving patrol as they stared in horror at the burning emplacements. The first of them had just started to turn when McIlheny and Trooper Vehrec snapped their Holbars carbines up and swept the trail with a quick burst.

The enemy soldiers crumpled to the ground, and then the two Recondos were off again, sprinting towards the pair of emplaced antitank guns on the edge of the canyon wall. They were fairly heavily dug-in, earth-roofed bunkers lined with sandbags. It didn't matter. McIlheny shrugged off the satchel charge he carried, yanked the friction fuse, and gave it an easy underhand toss at the left-hand bunker before diving for cover. The earth shook again, and McIlheny looked up to see the bunker's roof caved in. Six inches worth of solid ground was proof against fragments and grenades, but not forty pounds of high explosives. Before the dust settled, Vehrec ran up to the bunker's firing slit, jammed his Holbars inside, and emptied the magazine. That ought to do it.

There was a pounding of feet from up the trail, and McIlheny whirled to see Pierce and Uller, the other Recondo team assigned to this side of the cavern, throw up their hands. McIlheny let out a breath before carefully easing his finger off the Holbars' trigger and calling,

"The other two?" Pierce grinned.

"Expended."

"Right. C'mon." Vehrec had circled around to the back of the bunker, Holbars at the ready. He peeked inside, then raised both arms over his head.

"All clear." Pierce and Uller moved upslope, snugging in to provide rear security, while McIlheny joined Vehrec in the bunker. The gun there was a standard Archonate AT piece, a single-barreled 40mm with a breech-block action and iron sights. McIlheny squatted in the gunner's position, carefully working the aiming levers until he found a missile down in the valley below. Bohner's people were swarming over it like ants, frantically trying to complete launch preparations, but McIlheny held his fire. Setting off one of those missiles would torch it and a good part of the valley, but the smoke would mean they could forget about putting paid to Bohner's whole stockpile. Not a good option, unless there wouldn't be any others.

"HE." Vehrec slid the shell home, clanked the breech-block closed, and then they both settled in to await what would come.

_Ragnarok Project Primary Site_

_0552 Hours_

_T Minus Eight Minutes to Sunrise and Counting_

D Century slammed into the mouth of the valley like the mailed fist of an angry God. First through were the Scorpions, their turrets already trained on the valley floor positions Ellis had scouted out. One of them, a big 120mm recoilless rifle of Eurasian War vintage, managed to boom out a shot that shattered one of the Scorpions. Mercifully, the wreck was pushed against one valley wall instead of blocking the way for the rest of the Century. Before the 120's crew could reload, the next combat car in line crashed out a shot from its long 90mm gun, hitting the 120's ready-use ammunition and sending a bright orange fireball up into the sky.

The Scorpions angled off to the sides, opening a gap in their lines for the Century's Buffalos to push through. The valley's second line of defense was at the first major turn, a web of interlocking trenches and spider holes sown with anti-vehicle obstacles. Getting past it would be a real problem for a mechanized force. Fortunately, Ellis had no such plans. The position would give him a good line of sight, and that was all he needed.

The troop carriers charged forward, clouds of steam rising from their stacks as their drivers pushed the engines to the limit and their guns stubbing out short, barking bursts of fire. Ellis followed them into the inferno.

_0552 Hours_

_Aboard _Spirit of Rio

Julie Rosemont could see a thick line of smoke rising up from the valley below. It had started at the mouth, where the craters he and 504 had left were still smoking. Now it was reaching further up the valley, towards the bend that would give Ellis his firing position. If things kept going as well as it looked from here, Ellis would only need a couple more minutes to get into position.

Which, all things considered, was just as well.

"Some flak starting." Brown's voice was taut and sharp with tension, but with only a hint of a nervous quaver. Black clouds were starting to bloom over the valley, barely distinguishable from the still-dark sky and the smoke from the fighting. A sound broke through Rosemont's earphones, a menacing high-pitched beeping. "Cobra missile battery acquisition radar coming up. Stand by to evade, pilot."

"Rog." The Draka missiles weren't that big of a worry, unless you were flying straight and level. Which, unfortunately, was pretty much what you had to do to make a good Deadeye drop. Rosemont reefed the _Spirit_ in tightly, snapping into a turn to keep from getting too far from the valley.

It was turning into one hell of an interesting morning.

_0553 Hours_

_Aboard Warhammer 504_

"Missile launch! Snake and evade!" Lieutenant (j.g.) Justin "Saint" DeSanto slapped a button on his bombardier's station, locking one of Warhammer 504's two Nail antiradiation missiles onto the electronic signature of the Cobra battery's radar. Seconds later, Lieutenant "Mondo" Sheehan squeezed his strick grip trigger, punching the missile off the rail and igniting its rocket motor before putting his Retaliator into a barrel roll as Saint pumped out chaff from their internal defense pod. A few seconds later, what looked like an oversized firework streaked past the belly of their plane, missing and arcing down towards the rainforest below. Bare seconds after that, there was a distant flash from beneath the tree cover, and the missile battery's tracking radar blinked off of Saint's scope. He bared his teeth at the pilot.

"Scratch one." The spooks in _Reprisal_'s photo lab had said there only appeared to be one battery in the area. Given that these were the same people who had failed to notice ballistic missiles being assembled under their noses until it was almost too late, Saint was disinclined to trust their word.

Mondo pulled 504 into a turn, making sure they were close enough to cover the _Spirit_. Sure enough, thirty seconds after the first battery had gone off the air a second signature blossomed on Saint's scope, the low bass warning tone of the search radar quickly switching to the beeping of tracking and fire control. Saint grimaced and glanced over at his pilot as they turned to attack the second missile battery.

"Mondo, sometimes I hate being right all the time."

"Don't worry." 504 rolled level, and Saint quickly set up his second attack. "After this noise is over we'll hit the bars in Venta Bellagrium. The girls there can cure what ails you."

"What? My keen insight?" Saint locked the Nail in.

"Nope." Mondo squeezed the trigger, then sent the plane diving for the deck behind more chaff as their missile once again passed a Draka SAM in midair. "Your ego."

"Hey. Didn't I-" Saint broke off, staring at his scope. "Oh, shit."

"Oh, shit?" Mondo's rising tone made it clear that he did not want his bombardier saying those words right now.

"Snakes shut their tracking radar off too quick after they missed us. The Nail went dumb." Without a radar signature to home in on, the anti-radiation missile was nothing more than a half-million dollar unguided rocket. "The radar's back up." And they were fresh out of missiles. And the Snakes probably weren't. And the _Spirit_ was going to have to make its run soon.

"Gimme a steer." Mondo's voice was level, and Saint automatically read off the course to the radar signature. It wasn't until he saw the pilot reach down and adjust the armament panel that he realized what the plan was.

"Ohhhh shit." This time it sounded more like a prayer.


	8. Chapter 7

_0553 Hours_

_Ragnarok Project Primary Site_

"No response from the hilltop installations, Merarch!" The commtech's eyes were wide with fear and excitement as he turned to look at Stonewall Jackson Bohner. "Or the sentry patrols. Shall I keep trying on the secondary channel?"

"No." Bohner shook his head, eyes bright and narrow as he stared at the dust and smoke coming from just a few hundred meters up the canyon. "No, I think not. In any case, it's clear where the enemy's primary effort is bein' made." He had no trouble, now, classifying those troops as _enemy_, for all that they were Draka every one. Any doubts about that had been erased when they used Yankee air support to kill his people. "Nesmith-"

"Little over five minutes, Merarch." Bohner glared, but the scientist didn't flinch, spreading his hands. "Fuelin' mostly completed, and we don't dare rush what's left without overrunning the tanks. Gyros take that long to come up to speed anyway, and they _cannot_ be whipped into workin' faster. I'm goin' down to do what I can, but we need those five-six minutes." Bohner nodded, watching Nesmith stride out of the bunker before he turned and grabbed a Holbars off the wall. Looked like he had his marching orders.

"Cohortarch Bekker, take charge here. I'm going forward to the two-line." The next one back after the one the enemy was about to hit. "Major Ito, yo' will accompany me." The Japanese Army man, who had been sitting in a corner and visibly willing everyone else in the command bunker to forget he was alive, looked up with a vacant expression. Bohner thrust a submachine gun into his hands.

"Merarch Bohner, I-"

"No arguments." Bohner fixed him with a glare, pupils narrowed like a snake about to strike. "You're not goin' to get a chance to hedge your bets back here, Ito. Not after the way the rest of yo' little plan's turned out. Yo' stayin' right where I can keep one eye on yo' until this is all over."

_0553 Hours_

_One-Line, Ragnarok Project Primary Site_

Tetrarch Douglas Eggleston held up a hand. All the emplacements forward of the one-line had their communications out- at least, he devoutly hoped that's what it was, and not something else. Still, it was obvious that the enemy was a mechanized force of about four Tetrarchies with some attachments, probably one of the oversized Centuries the Reaction Cohorts up north used to stop cutting expeditions.

Which meant he knew what their solution would be, because this was a situation straight out of the War Academy. You did not charge antitank obstacles and entrenchments. You stopped, deployed infantry, and cleared them before moving past. Eggleston had had his men hold fire, concealing the positions of his few antitank rifles and rocket-guns until they had the best shot. When the troop carriers slowed down to unload, they'd slaughter them.

Or at least, that was the plan. In the excitement of his first time under fire, Tetarch Eggleston had forgotten that the "enemy" had studied at the War Academy too, and knew the school solution just as well as he did. A classic junior officer's mistake born from a lack of experience. Sadly, it meant that Eggleston would never have a chance to acquire that experience.

D Century's Buffalos thundered forward, the heavy crunching of their wheels sounding like a herd of their namesakes coming up to a full stampede. Somewhere drums and electric guitars were playing, ratcheting the tension even higher. Ready…steady…almost there…

The Buffalos shot steam from their cab-mounted stacks as they surged forward with a burst of acceleration. Eggleston blinked for a moment, just a moment, before chopping his hand down. It was too late. The antitank gun to his left crashed out a single shell, and one of the front-line Buffalos stopped, troopers in the back jumping for cover as a fireball consumed the driver's cabin. A few rocket gun shots went wild.

And then the eleven remaining Buffalo halftracks of D Century, First Reaction Cohort slammed into his lines. Three hung up in the antitank ditch, one dissolving into flame as a pair of rocket-gun shots caught it in a crossfire, but the rest kept going into the infantry's positions before a trench or obstacle brought them to a stop. In the instant after they ground to a halt, just as Bohner's troops were starting to emerge from their holes to fire weapons and throw grenades, the front-rank Buffalo drivers squeezed together improvised clackers and detonated the Broadsword directional mines daisy-chained to their sides. There were screams, a horrible sound like hail on a tin roof as supersonic ball bearings ricocheted off the sides of the Buffalos, and then the men and women of D Century were leaping down, guns firing and machetes flashing in the firelight.

"_BuLaLa! BuLala!_" The Draka war cry sounded as they fell on the One Line like a steel-tipped wave. A good number of Bohner's people had had the sense to stay down after the Buffalos hit, and they were Draka. Ellis' people were Draka, and Reaction Cohort troopers, graduates of a hard school of fighting to the death against people who despised you. A minute, and there were only scattered shots and screams along the One Line. Another, and there were none.

"Master Warrant!" Ellis' command car pulled to a stop, and he jumped out even as Jenny started assembling the Yankee COIL device. McWhirter looked up, his wrinkled mouth strangely slack with pleasure, licking his lips as he shook bits of blood and torn flesh off his machete blade. "_Get_ First through Third organized and in the trenches, o' Bohner's people goin' throw us right back out again!" McWhirter shook his head, blinked, and something like sanity came back into his eyes as he started shouting for squad leaders. Ellis spotted Tetrarch Sideman coming up from the rear, one arm streaked with angry red burns. His carrier must have been the one that caught the shell. "Allright, Tom?"

"Yeah." Sideman looked down at his arm, his voice full of annoyance more than anything else. "Got off before she started really burnin'. Lord knows where my troops are though."

"Fo'get 'em." Sideman blinked, and Ellis waved his hand back. "Want you to go back to the disabled Buffalos. Find as many as yo' can, get 'em organized, get 'em up here. We goin' need every rifle we've got in a minute here, and we do _not_ have the margin for little lost Draka wandering around back there tryin' figure out which end is up. Do it, _go_, now." Sideman nodded and turned, sprinting off for the smoking, disabled carriers in the rear, yelling as he ran.

Ellis ran back to his Hyena, where Jenny had the long black tube of the COIL projector hooked up to its tripod and battery. Ellis clambered up behind it and adjusted the telescopic sight. Men were massing back in Bohner's reserve line, and behind them he could see the nerve gas depot.

"Listen up, Draka!" Ellis pitched his voice to carry as he carefully zeroed the crosshairs in on the spot he wanted. "They goin' be all over us in a minute. If we hold 'em, this whole damn thing goes away. We don't, everyone dies. There ain't no in-between on this one, boys and girls, so you hold. Hear me? Yo' fuckin' hold!"

"Got the target, Centurion?" Master Warrant McWhirter was holding his Holbars up to his shoulder, carefully lining up shots and squeezing them off. The range was long for the small 5.56mm round, but every other shot or so a man would drop from the next line of fortifications. He didn't look away from the enemy when he spoke.

"Yeah. Dialed in, long as we can keep it." McWhirter laughed, a guttural sound with all the humor of a hyena's bark.

"Then shut up and let us handle this, Sir." Ellis laughed, much the same sound, and turned his attention to steadying the scope as McWhirter took the rest of the Century's troops to the forward trenches, as close as possible to Ellis' men. He found himself thinking- praying, perhaps, although the man he addressed in his thoughts was quite mortal.

_Nothing curse you, Rosemont. Don't you dare let me down now._

_0555 Hours_

_Aboard _Spirit of Rio

"Got anything, Mad Dog?" Rosemont fought to keep an edge from his voice. "We are on a bit of a deadline here, you know." The flak was bursting closer to them now as the Draka gunners got their radars online and their barrage patterns set up. Even if Bohner's people didn't have a missile launch ready, the attack was looking worse by the second.

"Fucked if I know, Sir." Brown most definitely had an edge in his voice, but his hands were still moving smoothly over the bomb system controls. "Between all the smoke down there and flying like we're the Goddamned Blue Angels the target could be painted bright fuckin' pink and I wouldn't know about it. Can you give me some straight and level?"

"Sure I- Chaff!" Rosemont screamed the last word into his mask as the Retaliator's threat board lit again, craning his neck for a sight of the Cobra coming after them. He caught the distinctive white smoke trail rising up from the jungle and turned into it, cutting down the size of his radar signature just as Brown's chaff cloud blossomed large on the scope. The Cobra whizzed past, a long finned thing the size of a telephone pole, and Rosemont turned to glare at his bombardier. "I'll fly straight and level just as soon as you don't mind getting clocked by one of those. How about it?"

"Well, we've gotta do something."

"I am." Rosemont keyed his radio. "Warhammer 504, this is Spirit. What is the story on that second Cobra battery?" A pause that stretched on too long without an answer. "504, respond." Another silence. "Mondo, Saint, this is Rosie. Answer up, Goddammit!"

His only reply was the crackling hiss of static.

_0556 Hours_

_Two Line, Ragnarok Project Primary Site_

"Go! Let's fuckin` go, Draka, let's _move_!" Stonewall Jackson Bohner set the example for his men, vaulting out of his trench and darting forward towards the next piece of cover, firing his borrowed Holbars from the hip. Loyal Draka troops swarmed up after him, cutting the air with bursts of autofire and wildly screamed war cries.

The traitors up ahead were ready for them, firing back from cover with their rifles and a couple dismounted heavy machine guns from their wrecked transports, and men of the Race were falling around him. Not enough, though, not nearly enough, and Bohner threw himself into a cluster of rocks, carefully snapping off rounds to cover his men's advance. Citizen officers were expected to lead from the front, after all, and besides, this was the turning point of history. He knew it. There was nowhere else on Earth he'd rather be right now.

The Draka Race surged forward to victory, and Merarch Bohner cheered as he got up to run with them. Here. His people were on their way back, and by all the Gods and Goddesses, the first blow was being struck here!

_0556 Hours_

_Aboard Warhammer 504_

_5 km south of Ragnarok Project Primary Site_

"Set deflection, 30 mils."

"30 mils." Saint reached up and adjusted the gunsight pipper, bringing it down to the correct angle. "Altitude six thousand. Flak's pickin' up down there. Let's do this."

"Roger." Mondo casually snapped Warhammer 504 over onto her left wing, craning his neck to pick out the light gray specks of the SAM site's launchers and radars in the jungle below. He supposed he was going to have to give the photo geeks on _Reprisal_ a bit of a break, because it was pretty obviously a new installation. Among other things, that meant the site hadn't been covered up with camouflage netting yet, making it relatively easy to pick out from the air. That would make this easier. Well, possible, at any rate. 504 screamed in over the treetops in a shallow dive, wings swinging forward as Mondo popped the airbrakes. As the plane slowed in midair, he pushed the stick forward, raking the pipper's green "death dot" across the clearing as he held down the trigger.

Just forward of the Retaliator's bomb bay, a 25mm revolver cannon spooled up to full speed with a sound like a supersonic buzzsaw. It burned through its' 1100 round ammunition tank in less than twenty seconds, and the earth around the Draka missile site exploded as though from a driving rain as it was peppered with fragments of high-explosive shell. The control and launcher vans were made of heavy sheet steel, and all the men and women inside heard was an insane clattering sound, as though someone had dumped a bucket of rocks on the roof. The site's radar dishes were made of aluminum and copper wire, and they eroded just as surely as a sandcastle at high tide. When the Draka missile operators looked back up to their scopes, they saw that they were all dead.

Warhammer 504 jolted in midair as she pulled off from the target, and Saint sucked in a breath as lights on his panel flashed bright red. Nothing seemed to be falling off, so he flicked his eyes over to his radar countermeasures panel and keyed the radio with a tight smile.

"Spirit, this is Warhammer 504. Second site is history." He glanced over at Mondo. "Hey, damn. We pulled it off!"

"That we did." The pilot pulled his plane into a right turn, heading for the coast. "How much damage did we take?"

Saint glanced down at the panel and grimaced. Nothing that said immediate crash, but- "All we need. Think it's about time to head back for the barn." Mondo nodded.

"Roger that." As they climbed up out of range of the anti-aircraft guns, Saint risked a look over his shoulder and blew out a careful breath.

"We did what we could. Here's hoping the old man can seal the deal."

_0557 Hours_

_One-Line, Ragnarok Project Primary Site_

Ellis ignored the screaming line of Draka infantry coming out of the bush further up the valley. He ignored the whine of the bullets and the missiles rising up out of the smoke like overgrown green trees, minutes away from launch. He shut out everything except the Yankee COIL projector and the last few connections.

"Battery!" Praise Nothing, that was the last step. Jenny shoved the cables off of the brick-sized battery pack to him, and he shoved them into the side of the projector. He bent to look through the sighting scope, carefully placing the crosshairs over the outline of the nerve gas depot through the smoke. He could see flashes around the edge of the scope, Bohner's troops coming closer and closer. Ten seconds to hand-to-hand range on his front line, maybe less. One of them would get this far- no way of stopping that, not when he had to be so close to the front line and doing something so obviously important. All the way here, and they probably were going to miss it by _that_ fuckin' much.

Still had to try, of course. And hope. Ellis stabbed his finger down on the button.

_0557 Hours_

_Aboard _Spirit of Rio

"Contact!" Rosemont whipped his head to the side to look at his B/N in astonishment.

"You sure, Mad Dog?" Brown nodded.

"I'll tell the fuckin' world, Sir. COIL paint, right where it oughta be." The kid's voice was still high, but now it sounded like excitement, not fear. "Hot damn. We're gonna get 'em."

"Yeah. Set it up." When they'd first leveled out after 504 called the missile site down, Rosemont had thought at first it was too late, that Ellis had failed or the valley was too fouled with smoke and haze for the Retaliator's systems to pick out the pinprick of coherent light miles below them. He'd never been so thankful to be wrong. Brown bent down over his scope and stabbed at a key, then flipped a switch on the armament board.

"Ten low, pilot. Three miles do- oh, shit." The _Spirit_'s nose came around, pointing back down the valley and into a sky strewn with black flak bursts, now thick and close together like blisters on a horrible burn. The guns couldn't track a high and fast target, but if they put up enough lead and shrapnel it wouldn't matter. Brown stared straight ahead for a moment, taking in the death-filled sky before them, and Rosemont could almost see his eyes going wide as he took in the same scene. Then Mad Dog shrugged his shoulders and bent down over his scope.

"Let's get these sons-of-bitches, Rosie." His voice was perfectly level now, as though he'd been using his commander's callsign all along. Rosemont nodded, pushing the throttles forward as his other hand guided his mount smoothly onto the bomb run.

The stories, when they began months later in Officers' Clubs from South Africa to Iceland to the Philippines, would start out relatively modest. The men telling them, clad in green Nomex flight suits that inevitably sported a Retaliator patch, would allow that maybe three or four other guys on the planet could have pulled it off. That guy Yeager, say, was supposed to be pretty hot shit for an air force puke, maybe throw in Dessaix or Muldoon if you wanted to be internationally expansive. A few years later, one or two might even talk about Delapore, who was supposed to be the best of the new breed of Snake pilots. But not a few years after that, as they told the story over Scotch whiskey, sweet rum or sharp rice beer, those same men would swear that no other jet jockey on the planet could have made a bomb run into that valley and lived to drop his payload. And decades later, in Buenos Aires and Kobe, Nova Archona and Candor Chasma, when the story had begun to pass into myth as all tales must- then, they would say that only Rosemont flying a _Spirit of Rio_ could have done it. That somehow, for just a few moments, her control runs had become his sinews, her engines his heart, and the bombs tucked into her belly his booted foot stamping out those who would break the peace.

Most of the listeners, raised to control their ships through neural links and other methods as far beyond Rosemont's hydraulics and cables as they were beyond leather reins and a whip, would smirk and roll their eyes at the notion that anyone before them could have really known what it was to be one with an aircraft. A few would listen, and believe, and something uniquely human would live on in them.

_Spirit of Rio_ shot through the fire at just under the Mach, thick air streaming off her wingtips and spiraling out into the air. Rosemont could feel her frame shaking and whining as bits of metal tore at her skin, and a veteran's touch and feel responded where lesser skill must have failed. A warning light as one of his turbofans was torn to pieces by a Draka shell, wasp-high squealing of the fire alert as he automatically shut down the engine and slammed the other into afterburner, using up the last of his energy to put her right-

-there-

Julie Rosemont squeezed the trigger on his stick and felt the thump of his bombs dropping free. Then the shells struck home, and he felt the horrifying sensation of _falling_ as a wing was shot away. A quick grab for his ejection handle, and the world dissolved into noise and light.

_0600 Hours_

_One-Line, Ragnarok Project Primary Site_

The blast threw Pietr Ellis off of his combat car when it hit, a hammer of hot air slamming him off the back of it and down onto the dirt, the air whuffing out of his lungs. For a terrifying moment he couldn't breathe, as fire seemed to wash over his face and his lungs could only draw in sulfur clouds. Then strong hands helped him to his feet, and he saw.

The entire valley behind the line Bohner's people had rushed from was a firestorm. The fuel-air bombs had struck true, the heat of their ignition ripping open the nerve gas drums and instantly destroying the fragile, deadly organophosphate molecules that would have fastened onto nerve endings with the lethal slickness of black ice. The blast wave from them had torn open the nearly-full missiles nearby, mixing their fuel and oxidizer together and adding to the inferno. That had ignited plants, clothing, camouflage netting, and anything else remotely flammable, further adding to the heat. As Ellis watched, paint on the few remaining structures was beginning to catch fire, and there was a sound eerily like popping corn as ammunition began to cook off. Soon the fires would be hot as a forge, burning metal and charring bone.

Best to be gone by then.

Ellis shook himself and looked at his men and women, clustering around their leader for orders. "Allright, Draka. We got no kinda time for doin' it wrong, so let's do it right. I want a sweep for wounded, ours and theirs, as far forward as we can go.. Any of Bohner's people wanna surrender, take they weapons and they come with us. They don't wanna surrender, expend 'em or leave 'em for the fires. Three minutes max, then we are fuckin' history. Move it!" They moved, and Ellis turned to grab his radio handset from Jenny. "We need to know how many vehicles can run. Master Warrant-"

"Dead, Sir." Jenny's voice was quiet, hoarse, and she pointed to one of the foxholes just forward of their position. McWhirter's lips were bared in a snarl, his wrinkled skin pocked with half a dozen bullet wounds he'd taken before the one that had torn his throat out. Even in death's rictus, he still looked closer to peace than Ellis had ever seen him. The Centurion shook his head, then leaned down to close the staring blue eyes.

"Allright, then. Tell his 2IC to find out what runs and what we can get runnin'. Anythin' else, we leave. Wounded first, then we walk- only a couple klicks to the valley entrance."

Ellis looked up at the sky, smudgy with smoke and starting to clear. There was a single white parachute floating down towards the Earth.

"And one more thing. Get the Recondos on the horn. Tell 'em that if the man who just saved the State an' Race gets his throat sliced by one of Bohner's people before they get to him, I'll bust 'em so low they'll have to salute a centipede."

_0610 Hours_

_Ragnarok Project Primary Site_

The two parties came in almost simultaneously. Ellis looked back and forth for a moment, then waved his subordinates off. They were clear of the firestorm now, with loyal troops on the way to provide ambulances and medical supplies and enough men to stop any attacks by the truly stupid or desperate. The details could wait. After a moment of looking back and forth, he stepped forward to the first man they'd brought in, the one in a green flight suit.

"Name." For a moment, the pilot looked at Ellis like he was speaking another language. His hair was shot through with shocking white and his face haggard with fatigue. Ellis prodded, gently. "What's your name, son?"

"M-" The Yankee coughed, turned his head to the side, and hacked as his lungs tried to clear out the soot and burning tar in the air. "Melvin Brown. Lieutenant junior grade, U.S. Navy. Service number 665893." Ellis chuckled softly.

"Well, Lieutenant Melvin Brown, service number 665893, yo' can be easy. We're the troops yo' were supportin' a while back, so yo' a guest, not a prisoner. Anythin' we have is yours, and we'll get yo' back to yo' people just as soon as we can get to Regentropfen." The young man slumped in relief for a moment, then looked up.

"Centurion-"

"Ellis."

"Ellis. What about Captain Rosemont?" Ellis bit down on his lip. It hadn't sunk in until just now that the man whose flying had just saved them all was also the one who had burned his people alive twenty years ago. The name Rosemont was one every Draka born since 1945 knew and had a grudge against. But now all he could say was,

"We looked. But there was only one chute. I'm sorry, son. " Brown bent his head down between his knees and nodded, then looked back up.

"We were close when the blast hit. Too close. Almost collapsed my chute and-" He broke off there, and Ellis just nodded. There was nothing more he could say without shaming the man, and right now he didn't feel like doing that, even to a damn Yankee. One of D Century's medics led him off to the aid station, and only then did Ellis turn towards his other guest.

"I suppose yo' pleased with that." His voice was as flat and cold as metal in the rain. From his position on the ground, burned and with two Reaction Cohort troopers holding rifles on him, Stonewall Jackson Bohner spat.

"Fuckin' right. Even if I couldn't fix the rest of yo' from handin' everything over to the Yankees and Bushmen again, at least I got that old fucker. I hope he burned." Part of Ellis couldn't help but agree, but its voice was dying. Instead there was just anger, a tightness in chest and stomach and an infinite weariness in his voice.

"Mayhap he did, Bohner. If he did, that's one mo' death that's on yo'. I lost twenty-three of my people in there, and barring a miracle from a God I do not believe in that number is goin' to get higher. Possibly considerable higher, if there are still some of yo' little _fuckheads_ holdin' down the road between Camp Forrest and here. We got maybe thirty of yo' people out- you tell me how many that leaves on your hands. And the fightin' in Archona. And the boats comin' for the shore. And yes, maybe one old Yankee too." He looked down at the Merarch as he lay in the dust, shaking his head. "And for what, Bohner? For what?"

"For the Race." Bohner's eyes were bright, narrow as he looked up at the Centurion. "To give us a chance to do somethin', somethin' besides dying by bits on this Gods-cursed island. Give us a chance to reclaim-"

"Shut up." Bohner's mouth hung open. Apparently it had been a while since he'd been told that. "Even now, still, all yo' got is slogans? We're not dyin', Bohner. We're livin'. Just not the way yo' wanted. Well, yo' gonna get yo' fill of dyin' now."

"Fine." Bohner spat into the dust. "Shoot me. I'll welcome it." Ellis grinned, full and jovial and hideous.

"Shoot yo? Why, Merarch Bohner, shootin out of hand is for banana republics and would-be dictators. Yo' comin' with us. We'll put you on trial for the Yankee cameras to see, and send yo' off to a Yankee prison afterwards where no friends can free yo'. Where you can watch us make something less and less like what yo' wanted." He bent down to the older man, his voice dropping off almost into a whisper. "And when you die, Bohner? Yo' won't die a superman and martyr to the Race. Yo' will die a senile old man with bad teeth, forgotten long before yo' gone. Yo' stole years from so many, and now we gonna feed 'em all to yo' until yo' choke on it." He rose and turned to go, leaving the old man gaping at him on the jungle floor.

"Live long, Bohner. Live a long, long life."

_0830 Hours_

_Bridge, USS_ Reprisal

"It's confirmed, Skipper." The chief yeoman's voice was soft, as close to gentle as a twenty-year enlisted man could be with his Captain. "Warhammer 501 went down over the target. Only one chute, and the Snakes picked up Brown. They're bringing him back to Regentropfen."

Jaime Guitierrez waved his hand to acknowledge the man, staring off onto the horizon as his ship forged northwards to meet the flotilla of boats from Zanzibar. A good number of them had turned back when it became apparent that the IQEA ships were shooting first and asking questions never, but there were still a lot of them coming. Some would get through, but it wouldn't be the end of the world. Not anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, afterwards they could do something to stop this whole crazy fucking thing from going into another cycle. He didn't know what. Or how. But he owed it to a friend.

USS _Reprisal_ sailed off into the morning sea, her decks already shaking as aircraft leapt from her deck and into the bright blue sky. Her bow sent a fine wash of spray up into the sky, where it caught the light for a moment before falling back into the ocean. Tears, Guitierrez thought, and that was enough for him to let some of his own flow for his friend


End file.
